King of Ice, Queen of Fire Part 1: The Blue Rose Crown
by BrittMeresankh
Summary: Joanna was to give her husband a second son. Cersei was to be a Queen. Lyanna was to marry Lord Robert, and Catelyn to live happy ever after with her Brandon…. But nothing ever goes according to plan. AU where Joanna lives, at a price. This is part one of five planned parts. (Rhaegar x Cersei) (Rhaegar x Lyanna) (Brandon x Barbrey) (Eddard x Ashara)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

 **King's Landing, early 280 AC**

Joanna Lannister yawned as her maid dressed her. She was exhausted, but not from being roused hours before the sun would be, nor from her body fighting off the winter chill that crept past the firelight. Not even the strange dreams that had been plaguing her of late, taunting her with distant screams and close in, accusatory whispers.

No, she was tired because this was not her bed, nor her home. The only place she slept comfortably was in Tywin's arms, in their shared chamber at Casterly Rock. But the Rock, the bed, the arms were half a world away.

She was in King's Landing for the same reason she was being pulled out of bed that morning; the impending birth of her first grandchild.

 _This is what Tywin and I have been waiting for, since the last time I took to the birthing bed_ , Joanna thought. It was difficult for her to be excited by being dragged from bed this early, into the cold. _In truth it probably doesn't help much, for me to be there. I'm no midwife, but girls do scream for their mothers during this time, or so I'm told._ Joanna couldn't remember if she had screamed for her own mother when she gave birth to her twins, a little more than fourteen years ago now.

The maid fumbled in the orangish halflight, some poor girl on loan from Dowager Queen Rhaella, just as the room was on loan. As strings pulled tight and fabric was tugged, Joanna reflected on the path that had brought her and her beloved to this glorious moment.

Nine moons before had been the lavish double wedding at the Sept of Baelor. Cersei had insisted her brother be wedded to his new lady wife, Elia Martell, the same day she was, and the charming Prince Rhaegar had happily accepted… or at least what passed for happiness with that boy. _Not boy, I shouldn't think of him as such, but he's so young… better than that father of his_.

Joanna shuddered at the thought of Areys, grunted when the maid apologized for how cold the room was.

The oily hair, the sharp fingernails, the foul breath of the departed king still haunted her. The way she had flirted with him, fawned over him, in the way she and Tywin had schemed. She and Tywin understood each other, and made agreements for things like this. For the good of their family.

It made Rhaella hate her again, sure, but Rhaella had hated her before when Areys wanted her. How Rhaella's eyes had burned when the betrothal was announced!

Rhaella might have forgiven her if she knew what had come next: the slowly dosed pinches of poison into his cup every night, helping him sleep soundly, sure, but also slowly killing him. Areys had died around the same time Cersei had announced her pregnancy.

 _If only Elia was so fruitful_ , Joanna thought bitterly as she slipped on her slippers, and followed the maid out of her chambers. Though, truth be told, it wasn't her fault. Joanna and Elia had spoken once on the subject, before she left the rock a moon and a half ago. Elia had claimed that Jaime only visited her bed once a fortnight, and often had issues… oh how did she put it, 'sustaining himself'.

And then, to make matters worse, the boy had insisted on leaving his bride at Casterly Rock and coming with her for Cersei's birth. "She's a Queen, with a husband, and soon a baby. You're the only son of Tywin Lannister, the heir to the Casterly Rock. You should be worrying about your own wife's-"

"Elia is a good woman, charming, but Elia is not Cersei" Jaime had said back.

She should have hit him for that. Screamed at him, told him how disgusting they were. But that wasn't in her nature. She was a lion in the sense that she would do anything for her cubs, and all she could do was sigh sadly and tell Jaime that he could come. "But every night until we leave, you will take Elia into your bed and do your duty." Jaime had paled at this notion.

Her soft slippers carried her soundlessly across the stonework halls of the Red Keep, the full winter moonlight sucking the crimson from the walls where it slipped through the windows. She heard the screams of her only daughter long before she reached the chamber.

The scream felt eerily familiar. As it should, she guessed, she wasn't her mother's only child, and servants gave birth all the time. But still… this scream gave her a headache, and made her feel faint. She paused, pressing her hands to her temples. She heard a hoarse whisper, hissing _The deal is sealed. Your life…_ and she whipped her head around, but only the confused maid was there.

"Did you say something?" Joanna asked, her throat sore from sleep.

"No, milady," the girl shook her head furiously. Joanna sighed and kept walking.

It appeared that, with all the screaming, no one in the Red Keep was sleeping. King Rhaegar stood between his dearest friends, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and Lord Jon Connington, the Hand of the King.

Joanna couldn't help but feel unease at the young, fire haired Hand. _It should still be Tywin_ , she thought bitterly. Lord Connington had an energeticness to him that Rhaegar utterly lacked, and yet the two were thick as thieves.

Joanna bowed to Rhaegar. "Your Grace, how fares the young Queen?"

Another scream shattered the air. "That seems to speak for it," Connington murmured, and Joanna shot him a glance.

"Maester Pycelle says the labor is quite robust, Lady Joanna," Rhaegar said with a polite nod.

"Yes, it has come on very quickly and strongly," Pycelle said, appearing from seemingly nowhere over Joanna's shoulder. "Surely a testament to the strength of the son within."

"Have you thought of names for the babe, Your Grace?" Joanna asked. Of course, she knew Joanna wouldn't be a choice, or Tywin.

"Cersei has been insistent on naming her daughter Myrcella."

"Not a very Targaryen name," came another voice from behind, this one just as familiar to Joanna, but not as friendly. She turned and saw, near a window, sat the dowager Queen, with her five year old son Viserys curled up on her lap. _At least someone can sleep through the noise_.

"I beg to differ on that one, Queen Rhaella," Lord Connington said. "I would almost call it a reference to the Princess' grandmother, as both names end with 'ella'"

For once in her life, Joanna was thankful for Lord Connington. "And for a Prince?" Joanna asked.

Rhaegar sighed. "Since I was very young, I've wanted to name a son of mine Aegon. Cersei has been very insistent that this child will be a girl, though." He looked uncomfortable at that.

Part of the reason why Joanna had come for the birth was the hysterical letters she had gotten from her daughter. Cersei had been spouting nonsense about a cruel old sorcerer, and her friend Melara's death when they were children, and burning. None of this she had shown Jaime, or anyone but Tywin, but it was obvious that Rhaegar had heard at least one raving.

"None but the Seven know a child before it's born," Joanna replied.

"But the Seven Kingdoms will know soon enough," said an aproned young midwife, entering the accompanied by another scream from Cersei. "Lady Lannister, your daughter would really like you in here."

"Of course. By your leave, my King," Joanna gave a courtesy, motioned for her loaner maid to stay in the outer room, and entered the bedchamber.

A large fire roared on one end of the room, lighting much of the chamber and boiling water and wine. Lit candles covered most of the surfaces of the room, their small flames flickering and almost going out from the draft that came through the open window. Along with a pair of midwives, one old and one young, the room was filled with the ladies in waiting.

Lady Wynne Whent was there, the pretty maiden daughter of Lord Walter Whent, as was Miriah Blackwood, the younger sister of the newly ascended Lord Blackwood, Tytos. These girls were still in their dressing gowns, listening keenly to the sharp orders of the elder midwife.

Ashara Dayne was sitting at Cersei's right hand. She patted it gently and cooed quietly, the firelight making those violet eyes dance. Jeyne Farman, Cersei's friend since childhood, was wiping her forehead.

Joanna was disappointed that her nieces, Cerenna and Myrielle. She had brought them along to be her own handmaids while she was in King's Landing, but had handed them over to Cersei upon arrival. Oh sure, Wynne and Miriah and Ashara were from important houses, but that was almost threatening to her daughter. Rhaegar was promising young king, Aerys had been too at that age, and everyone knew his lecherous eye. Cersei needed to be surrounded with family who would advocate for her, Joanna had decided, and Cersei had taken the girls in.

Her children, as selfish and daft and spoiled as they could be, were family, and family was all that mattered in this world of intrigue and infighting. A house that fought itself would be swept away by an invading force. But a house that grew, that gathered allies and sent out chutes only to be woven back into the main branches, that was a house that thrived.

And that was what Cersei was doing as she screamed in the predawn gloom, tears running down her face as the fluids associated with birth ran down her thighs.

The fresh scream brought Joanna back to reality. "Cerenna, Myrielle, don't look so green. You'll be doing this in a few years yourself. Now go fetch…" but she didn't quite know what to tell them to fetch. The only times she had been in a birthing chamber before this, she had been in the bed.

"Maybe I'll be a septa," Myrielle moaned, falling against Cerenna.

"Oh hush and be helpful," Joanna hissed again before leaving them in the corner. She went to her daughter's side, waiving away Ashara Dayne. Her daughter was not the usual picture of prettiness and poise that Joanna had taught her to be, but who could expect her to be in this moment? She was nearly naked, only a small shawl thrown over her chest. The long golden curls were hastily pulled back from her face, tied at the nape of her neck with a cloth, and her legs were spread, bearing her gaping cunt to either midwife.

"I'm here, Cersei, it'll be over soon and you'll have a Prince-"

"Where is Jaime?" Cersei panted, not even looking at Joanna. "I'm dying, I can't die and never see him again."

"You're not dying, sweet Queen," Joanna cooed to her daughter, petting her head. "Your husband, the King, is outside waiting, and Maester Pycelle-"

"I want Jaime!" Cersei wailed, and Joanna cringed. Jaime was, as he had been every night since they arrived, behind a locked door with loyal Lannister guards outside of it. They were under no order to let anything disturb him, or to let him leave at night. She had been careful about allowing him anywhere near Cersei, keeping him busy with appointments during the day and making sure whenever the twins were together, they weren't alone. They'd seen each other over dinners with the king, him stopping in to Cersei's sewing circle with her ladies, but never, never alone, and never would he be by her birthing bed.

"Hush my sweet, just focus on bring your child into the world. You're going to be a mother soon."

"I'm going to be dead soon!" Cersei screamed, the end turning into anguish.

"Every woman feels she's going to die the first time she goes to her birth bed," Joanna said flatly.

"We can see the head, my Queen!" There was a thud in the back of the room, where one of Joanna's nieces had fainted. Cersei's hands gripped her mother's hand, and Jeyne Farman's hand, and Cersei screamed when prompted to push.

But Joanna's mind was gone. It had fled to a far away time, the last time she had gone to the birthing bed.

That second time had been far before Joanna's nine moons had passed, her stomach still small. There had been pain, but not as much pain as the twins had broght. She and Tywin had laid together nights before her pains came, whispering names, tasting them, feeling them out to see what felt right. Tyrion, they had agreed for a boy, but for a girl they debated. Tywin had wanted Janei or Lanna, and Joanna wanted Rohanne after their mutual grandmother.

Joanna screamed all four of these names, sobbing as she lost her child. Her last child.

A child, she suddenly remembered, she had agreed to lose.

X X X

It was a dream, Joanna was sure. A grey frosted field under a grey frosted sky, a creature of shadows standing before her.

 _You will die. Soon, as soon as that baby within you quickens. Your death will be the downfall of your house, your husband will turn bitter and brittle, your golden twins will damn each other with their sick love, and the one within you will slay your own love. The war brought on by those will distract the realm from a truer threat, and then..._

There were visions of blood and snow. Her own Tywin slumped over, a crossbow bolt through his belly. Her Jaime losing his hand. Monsters scampering over ruined blocks of ice. More and more vile visions...

"STOP! Stop, make it stop…" she had screamed, then whimpered… then the visions did stop, and it was just her and the creature.

It shifted forms as it spoke, from black wolf to black goat, to a hooded, genderless figure, always shifting, only staying on a given form long enough to make it out before it curled in on itself again.

The voice came at Joanna from all sides. _I can make it stop, I can save you. You'll see your daughter a Queen and your son a lord, hold Rhaegar's firstborn child, your firstborn grandchild, within your arms. It will be as you have wished it, and I can give it to you… for a price._

"What's the price?"

 _First, the babe within you must die. You will never fall pregnant again, your twins will be your only children._

That thought broke her heart. She had been so happy to be with child again, she and Tywin had always wanted a large family... but there would be grandchildren to dote on, grandchildren who would be Princes and Princesses, Lords and Ladies…

"I agree."

 _Wait… there is more. By agreeing, you will damn another to die the death you would have died. Another woman, at another time, in another place, will have her own body torn, ripped by her own babe, a babe she will never hold or care for. You doom that child to grow without it's mother's love._

"I agree," Joanna said again, immediately. Women died in the childbed all the time, in their stinking huts and dusty hovels, leaving their first dozen babes motherless all the time. It was the way of lesser women, she had been told, and told how lucky she was to be a Lannister.

Her Tywin needed her. Her Jaime and Cersei, her cousins and family, they all needed her, and she wouldn't let some nameless backwater woman dying shadow her conscious.

 _The deal is sealed, your life for your babe's life…_

She had woken that night, so many years ago, from a nightmare she couldn't remember. Her bed had been full of blood, and she had hidden the lifeless, deformed body of her little Tyrion before calling for help. She had refused to let anyone see the stillborn, not even Tywin. She wouldn't let her shame be used to shame him.

X X X

She was back in Cersei's bedchamber, in the Red Keep. She was there, and out of the corner of her eye she could see that figure again, shifting, slinking out of view as Joanna turned her head.

 _The deal was sealed, your life for your babe's life. The life of your unborn babe, and the life of this grown babe, damned to die the death you would have…_

The scream pulled her back, and her head whipped around as the midwives pulled a babe from between her daughter's legs. "A healthy princess!" The young midwife proclaimed, lifting the screaming infant up.

"Oh… oh no…" The older midwife proclaimed, her eyes widening. Joanna looked, as Lannister crimson gushed after the baby, pulsing, pushing out more and more with each beat of the Queen's heart. Cersei's hand went limp in Joanna's hand, and Joanna saw how pale Cersei had suddenly become, like ash. Like the dead.

The Queen's eyes rolled into her head, and she moaned "Jaime" once more as her neck lost it's tension and her head fell forward.

"Maesters!"

"Towels!"

"A Septon, quick!"

Joanna was shaking. She let go of the corpse's hand she'd been holding. She knew none of that was of use now. Her daughter had been right all along, it seemed. She went to the midwife and took the bloody infant from her. _Another woman, at another time, in another place, will have her own body torn, ripped by her own babe, a babe she will never hold or care for._

The babe had emerald eyes, a true Lannister green, but the platinum Targaryen hair of her father. Other than that, her little face was smushed, as all new babies are, and Joanna couldn't place any familiar traits in the nose or mouth. The memory of those words echoed through Joanna's thoughts, taunting her. _You'll see your daughter a Queen and your son a Lord, hold Rhaegar's firstborn child, your firstborn grandchild, within your arms. It will be as you have wished it..._

And that she had. Joanna had seen her daughter the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms for six moonturns, and here she was, holding her firstborn granddaughter as her own precious daughter slipped away. _My fault, all my fault…._

She sat by the window, wrapping the princess tight in a blanket, and her own skirts. The little girl's hand wrapped around her finger. _You doom that child to grow without it's mother's love._

"Little Princess," she whispered as the baby's cry died away. The windowsill was a moonlit island of calm in the chaos brought by the young Queen's death. All decorum and respect for Cersei's dignity had been forgotten as maesters, septons, and courtiers seemed to flood the room, trying to help a useless cause. "You will have your grandmother's love. You are still a Princess, and I swear no one will ever forget that. You will always be a Princess, a Targaryen yes, but still a Lannister. Little silver lion, little green eyed dragon… little Princess."

Joanna looked up, and her eyes met another set of eyes, deep indigo eyes below an onyx and ruby laden crown. There were no tears in her green eyes, and no tears in the indigo eyes. She could hear crying, but it sounded so distant. Nothing existed in that beam of moonlight but the two sets of eyes, and…

"My King, may I present you to your firstborn, your daughter, the Princess Myrcella."

X X X

Author's Note

I hope you enjoy the beginning of this story! This is my first time writing fanfiction. I am in love with the Song of Ice and Fire books (not as much the later seasons of the show, I avoid these please don't spoil past season 5), the world George RR Martin has written is just so enthralling. I hope my love for the world shines through in this AU timeline piece.

I have a plan for 5 parts to this story, each part will contain multiple chapters. I want to keep as true to the characters Martin has built, but at the same time exploring the butterfly effects of my divergence point.

I'm excited for feedback. If you see any flaws in the timeline I'm working off of, grammar or spelling issues, anything at all please tell me so I can thank you and take your advice/fix things.


	2. Daughter of Daybreak

Author's Note

Hey all, I'm glad you liked the Prologue well enough to continue! I'm personally happier with my writing for this chapter, and I just want to say again I'd love feedback on grammar, spelling, consistency, so on. I've had the first chunk of this story written out for a while, so you'll be getting this and the next chapter in quick succession, but that probably won't be the norm continuing.

Also, this is rated T for a reason. This first part will be a little explicit. Considering the source material though, it probably won't be enough to make you blush.

Other than that, Enjoy :)

X X X

 **Harrenhal, late 281 AC**

The dark haired woman was thankful she woke before dawn, but was even more thankful for the arm around her waist, and the soft snoring breath warming her neck.

She had almost thought it all a dream, the first few days of this tourney with it's dancing and merrymaking, especially when Brandon Stark told her that his little brother fancied her. She and Ned became inseparable after the dance and a few chaste kisses, or what passed for inseparable between her obligations to Lady Lannister and he to his family, but...

But here she was, Ashara Dayne of Starfall, in the arms of sleeping Eddard Stark. She ached between her legs, but it was a good ache, an ache she wanted to work through, to go again… would they have time, though? Would he want to? They had been so drunk last night when she had pulled him away into a dark corner, fallen to her knees before him to kiss his stomach, his thighs, and finally taste his manhood…

Would he even want to see her now, now that he had used her, now that she was deflowered? It wouldn't matter if he were a Dornishman, she knew, but the rest of the seven kingdoms were strange. She only really knew of the north what he had told her. _Maybe I shouldn't even wake him. Maybe I should just get dressed and leave, quickly…_

She tried to maneuver out from under his arm without waking him, but he stirred anyway. "Good morning beautiful," he whispered, pulling her back against him. He shifted and she felt he was stiff against her backside. She shifted, spreading to let his hardness between her legs, rub at the wetness there. Ashara sighed, the press of his cock on her cunt was exquisite-

Suddenly, he jerked away from her. Ashara turned to see Ned sitting up, blanket pulled up to his neck. She could barely make him out in the predawn gloom, but she felt him shift away from her when she reached out to him.

"Ned, what's wrong?"

"I-I-I, my Lady I-I didn't mean to… to offend… to-to…" He stammered. She could see his head turning, looking away from her. She was sitting up now, and him pulling the blanket had exposed her body, and the chill that crawled over her body left gooseflesh in its trail.

"Offend me?" Ashara asked with a chuckle. "You're offending me now, cowering from me like you woke up next to Mad Danelle. What's wrong? And stop hogging the blanket," she added, snatching back the corner of the blanket.

"I have… I was… I was drunk, my lady. I did not mean to… to besmirch your honor by… oh-"

She cut him off with a kiss. "Besmirch my honor? And I thought I was the one who seduced you, my Lord." She could feel his body flush warm with embarrassment. She ran her hands over his bare chest, then pulled him into an embrace. He was still tense.

"You have your reputation to think about, court-"

"I don't give a damn about court. It's just a giant cat fight between the Red Queen and the Black Queen," she bit back. She was referring, of course, to the famous rivalry that had taken over King's Landing for nearly two years, since the death of young Queen Cersei and the birth of Princess Myrcella.

A small shudder went through Ashara as she thought back on that dark night. She had never seen that much blood, and the horrified rush of all the ladies and maesters trying to stop the young queen's life drain out from between her legs… Eddard wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back into this moment and against his chest.

"I love you, Ashara," escaped quietly from his lips.

She kissed his neck and collarbone. "I love you too, Ned," she murmured into his skin. He smelled rich, like earth ready to be tilled. Like the spring. That horrid night was winter, the end of a rough and dark one, but it was spring now, and she had fallen in love. "I don't want to be at court anymore. I'm sick of the ratsnest of intrigue and petty grievances. I just want a quiet place, like this."

'This' was a bad example. This was a cold tent, a thick fur bedroll on hard packed ground. She was about to elaborate, but Ned kissed her again before saying, "A quiet place, a green place. A tower to raise a son and a daughter, to read and to help the smallfolk and just…"

"Be together?" she finished for him. He nodded, and they kissed again.

"Would you be my wife, Ashara? May I ask my father, your father? Will you have me?" Eddard Stark asked, lips moving against her ear. She had moved completely into his lap, straddling him, her legs wrapped around his torso.

"Yes, yes, a thousand times yes," Ashara murmured, her mouth finding his. Their bodies melded together, moving as one, their breaths as one, their hearts as one. She rode him again, reveling in the sweet ache of him filling her, until he spilled inside of her.

When they were finished, He helped her back into her gown from the night before, a pale lilac with grey embroidery. _I don't know what will make Lady Lannister more angry_ , Ashara thought, _that it's the gown from last night's feast, or that it was purple,_ she thought as he slipped on his own clothes and they went their separate ways.

That was one of the petty little things at court she was ready to be rid of. Joanna Lannister, who was either called the Red Queen by her supporters or Cersei's Shade by her detractors, hadn't left her granddaughter's side since she was born.

Lady Joanna wasn't asked to be at court, but insisted on being at court to "see to the well being of her only granddaughter and King Rhaegar's only child and true heir". The fact that Myrcella was Rhaegar's only child and true heir wasn't something she wouldn't let anyone else forget it. The little girl, a few moonturns from her second birthday, was brought to every court, sat in on every meeting Lady Joanna had, and many of her father's meetings. She had even gotten into a few small council meetings, if the rumors were true.

Meanwhile Queen Rhaella, who was called The Black Queen due to the mourning gowns she favored since the death of King Aerys, wouldn't let anyone forget little Prince Viserys. The seven year old Prince was lean and stunning, with soft lilac eyes and hair like spun electrum. He was also a quick boy, quick of wit but quick of action, the later was something Rhaella was trying hard to temper. Much like his niece, he too accompanied his mother to every court, every meeting. Queen Rhaella had also become prone to reminding court of the Great Council of 101AC, and the choosing of the first King Viserys over the lineage of a granddaughter.

King Rhaegar was the only person who could straddle these lines unscathed, as it was him they were fighting over in reality. It was the King who refused to name either child Lord of Dragonstone, the title that traditionally designated the heir to the throne. Instead it stayed in a trust, with decisions for its well being decided by the King himself, his Hand Lord Connington, and the Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon.

And The Seven forbid anyone bring up the obvious solution to the idea, the reality that would happen if Rhaegar passed without any other heirs: Viserys and Myrcella betrothed, with Connington acting as Lord Protector until they reached their majority. Rhaella had blatantly declared the Lannister Princess wasn't good enough for Viserys, and in response Joanna had said that Myrcella's claim was strong enough on it's own for her to rule without Viserys.

In the meantime, Rhaegar lived on, and the court stayed divided. Queen Rhaella and her supporters started dressing in black and purple, black for her house and purple for the trait little Myrcella Targaryen lacked: violet eyes. Lady Joanna and her people, meanwhile, wore the red that was a mutual color for both the Targaryens and Lannisters.

It was the most foolish fight Ashara could think of, and would hopefully be coming to an end. All it would take would be a new Queen and baby boy, and that was what everyone was hoping this tourney would turn into.

Sure, officially this was a celebration tourney, for the return of spring and the wedding of Lord Whent's daughter, Wynne, to to the King's Hand. Lord Whent tried to play at being a great influence, with his knighted twins Orwell and Oswell, and now this prestigious marriage for his only daughter, but in reality he lacked funds for his grand desires. Harrenhal and it's surrounding territories continued to crumble under his leadership.

It was the most well known secret of the kingdoms that Rhaegar himself was the shadow funder of this tourney, and every lord with a unmarried daughter had brought said daughter in hopes of catching the young King's eye. Since Queen Cersei's death, nearly all marriage negotiations had been put on hold, from Lord Stark's negotiation with Lord Baratheon and Lord Arryn's discussions over his niece Allei Waynwood, who otherwise would have been marrying some landed knight about now. Dozens of daughters of minor lords from Last Hearth to the Salt Shore were parading their your Ladies; Lords Plumm and Penrose had become very vocal about their drops of Targaryen blood, and the daughters of hedge knights and merchants were crowding the edges of camp in cheap tents and expensive dresses, trying to impress.

Even she was there in part because of the prospect of a royal marriage. _The Daynes hold dragon blood in their veins you know_ , her Lord father told her more than once in letters after she had begged to come home. _Dyanna Dayne was the mother of Aegon the Unlikely, and her daughter Daella came home to Starfall. My great grandmother, and my grandmother was the granddaughter of Daenerys Targaryen, who married the Prince of Dorne. Those purple eyes of you are Targ blood, same for your brother Arthur._

Thankfully, the King had shown no interest in her. She thought Queen Rhaella might have, due to her house's standing and that Targaryen blood, but it was ultimately up to the King who he married. But Ashara's brother, Ser Arthur of the Kings Guard, was one of the King's closest friends, and he assured her she was safe. In fact, according to Arthur, the King hadn't shown interest in any of the women at court. "He's more interested in that Jon Connington than women, in truth, but never repeat that," He had whispered once, a few cups in. She didn't repeat it, and instead hoped for something that would conclude the war at court.

But, you never know what will happen at a tourney.

She slipped back through the dark, massive corridors of Harrenhal, cloak making soft noises against her hair and ear. She got lost more than once, almost walking into the barracks at one point, and the sky was pink by the time she made it to Kingspire Tower.

For being larger than the Red Keep, the tower was not large for the King's household. Sure, there were plenty of rooms for everyone, but Westeros was barely big enough for the rift that ran between the court. Ashara shuddered as she walked around the edge of the tower, it's black melted mortar running down the sides like candle wax. She ducked through the door, letting her hood fall down her back as she moved towards her assigned post.

The Sword of the Morning had grey-black hair and lilac eyes, eyes that were more serious than her laughing ones. He guarded Princess Myrcella's rooms in Kingspire that morning, and Ashara was both thankful and embarrassed for that.

"Running late, little sister?"

"It was a long night," Ashara said slyly, pushing past him. Ser Arthur didn't laugh, like some men might have, or even become defensively angry over her virtue. He simply smiled.

She entered the room quietly, slowly, trying not to draw attention to herself. It was hard to do, being a dark haired girl in a purple dress in a swirl of red gowned blondes, the low hanging fruit of the towering Lannister tree whose roots knitted the Westerlands together. All of these girls had been, unsuccessfully and to the loud protest of Queen Rhaella, been posed as new wives for Rhaegar in the past year.

Two of the girls were tending to little Myrcella, who was standing naked in a steaming copper tub. The little girl gripped both hands on the side of the tub, jumping and squealing happily, splashing her maids. The silvery curls that marked her parentage bounced as she did.

Joanna sat on the other side of the far room, already wearing in rather plain red dress with a wide skirt and simple embroidery. There would be a better dress for the wedding, where the public eye wouldn't see the decadence and where the dress would have less of a risk of being torn or stained. She stared into a large copper mirror, her niece trying to wrangle the long gold curls that hung to the small of her back into a ruby studded hairnet.

"Glad you could make it this morning, Lady Dayne," Joanna said, causing Ashara to jump. Lady Lannister's eyes were hard and unemotional, like the emeralds they shared their color with. The face in which they sat was almost ageless, Joanna could have said she was anywhere between seventeen and fifty seven, and Ashara would have believed it.

"It was a late night," She repeated, less sure this time. She heard snickering behind her, but refused to look.

"Ah yes. Well, I think we're almost done here, why don't you go freshen up and find a.. More suitable dress, and meet the Princess and I on the stands, hmm?"

Before Ashara could reply, there was a knock on the door. Ashara moved reflexively to open it, and Joanna stood, turning to face the door.

The figure in the doorway was stout and straight backed, clad in the thick black crepe of mourning that had been lightened with violet lace trimming and a large amethyst brooch. Her crown was a silver circlet, a delicate thing inlaid with black diamonds and amethysts, too pretty to sit over a face plumped by years of hard pregnancies and grief.

"Queen Rhaella," Ashara spat out with surprise, quickly dropping into a curtsy. The women in the room behind her all dropped, too, all but Lady Joanna.

"Ladies," Rhaella said, not giving anyone permission to stand. "A letter came from Casterly Rock, it was delivered to me by mistake. Congratulations, Joanna." Rhaella held the letter out to Ashara. Ashara took the letter with a trembling hand, and watched the Queen turn and walk from sight. Ser Arthur pulled the door shut a moment later, and everyone stood back up.

Ashara turned to see all eyes on her, a dozen mossy, jade and emerald arrows of angry vision.

"Well," Joanna said curtly, sinking into a chair before her vanity mirror. "Read it aloud, dear, then you are excused."

Ashara bit her lip slightly, before clearing her throat and unfurling the document. The seal had already been broken, a fact she knew the Lady Lannister had picked up from across the room

 _My dearest wife,_

 _I am writing this letter in the quiet comfort of our bedroom after a long day of anxiety and excitement. Elia took to the bed of blood last night, and I am very pleased to tell you that our second grandchild has been born._

 _Our gooddaughter has named the child Janei Lannister, to the anger of our son, who wanted to call a girl Cersei. The child is taking well to nursing and has lungs like I haven't heard since Jaime was her size. Sadly, Janei appears to be a blend of her parent's features, her hair appears muckish in color as do her eyes. If she must be a mutt, let her at least have Elia's good sense and Jaime's health._

 _It was a long and difficult process, and Elia is having a difficult recovery. The Maesters say that pregnancies and births will continue to be difficult for her, with her health, but she must bring about a son, so back to the birthing bed she will go. Jaime will follow me, and a Lannister son will follow him._

 _I …_

Ashara trailed off. She had read ahead and couldn't bring herself to say the next paragraph aloud.

"Continue," Joanna said quietly.

"My Lady, I don't think this next part is fitting-"

"Continue." Joanna implored, more firmly. Their eyes met across the room. The only sounds were the anxious breath of the Ladies, and the babble of the Princess. Ashara continued.

 _I expect you to return to Casterly Rock as soon as the wedding and tourney at Harrenhal is over. You surely have some motherly wisdom to impart on our gooddaughter, and it has been too long since my wife has lain next to me. You have more family to care for and help than the Princess, and it's obvious that your attempt to see another Lannister replace our daughter in the King's eyes has been and will continue to be fruitless, futile, and most of all, foolish._

 _It may even be in our best interest for you to return with the Princess. The King will have to remarry, and there will be other children. If you can remove her from the King's custody, we can control her upbringing, and mayhaps groom her to be a suitable match for her future half brother. Based on what…_

Ashara paused again, eyes widening. She swallowed.

… _On what you have told me, I also wouldn't put it past Arys' old hag to have the tot smothered as soon as you left._

 _Either way, I order you as your Lord and husband to return home at once, with all your Ladies, staff and guardsmen. I will no longer support, in conscience or with my treasury, this fool's errand of you playing nursemaid to a lost cause produced by the second to largest failure of our children._

 _Your husband,_

 _Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock_

Joanna was silent. She was calm. Her face was a blank, the only completely blank face in the room. Every lady in the room was struggling to look unaffected, and failing.

Joanna stood. "All may leave. I will finish getting the Princess ready."

"My Lady-"

"Out. Now." Joanna cut off all protest. She refused to look at anyone but her granddaughter.

Ashara watched the river of gold and red girls stream out of the chambers. She left last, with a final look over her shoulder. Joanna was facing away from the door, clutching the little Princess to her chest. The top of Myrcella's face was visible over her shoulder, the piercing green eyes meeting Ashara's from beneath the silvery mop of hair. Ashara closed the door and sighed, leaning against her brother.

"You enunciate well, you know."

She peered at him, confused. "Hmm?"

"You enunciate well when you read. Very official sounding. Carries over the room, through wooden doors even."

"Oh." It was all she could say in that moment.

"If Rhaegar made you his Queen, which I know he won't, you'd be wonderful in the audience chamber. Every Lord in the Red Keep would hear you."

"Hush."

She was in no mood for this, and he must have realized. He had always been good at telling when she needed laughter, and when she needed comfort. "Oh, it will be alright, little sister. No one will dare speak of that letter again, and you'll be out from under Cersei's Shade sooner than later."

"I'm not going to Rhaella either," she muttered, pushing off the wall. She was going to her rooms, to rinse and find a dress that didn't smell of wine and sex.

"Nor should you. Go find Lady Wynne, cheer her on as she gets ready for her big day at the end of this insanity. Enjoy the tourney. Today should be especially interesting."

"And why is that?" Ashara asked, looking over her shoulder at her brother one last time.

He shrugged, pushing his hair back. "There's a mystery knight enlisting today."


	3. The Mystery Knight

_Damn Damn Damn. Damn this fool notion._

Lyanna Stark was all turned around, as was the horse. She could hear The scouts on her tail, circling around around to either flank. She wasn't used to riding for long distances in such constrictive armor. Sure, she had handled herself and the horse just fine against those weak seated pricks in the lists, but this was dense woodlands, thick with mud and muck from the spring meltwater.

All had been going to plan, too! Lyanna had feigned disinterest in the day's tournament, asking to be allowed to go with Howland Reed to a murmurer show instead. Her father had of course allowed it, though Benjen and Brandon had been confused why she would miss the action for a dragon puppet and a dancing bear.

She and Howland slipped away from the crowds, to the brush where he had hidden a mismatched armor set and a shield. While she dressed, he had found the grey palfrey, only he knew where from. She also couldn't help but laugh when she saw the shield, a mocking weirwood face to show the conceited southron fools who was truly honorable.

And there the Knight of the Laughing Tree was born, born to ride. And ride this Ser did, taking each opponent in turn, humiliating them first in combat, then in moral when when they were returned their armor for the low price of teaching their squires not to bully the Crannogmen. It had all gone so well….

Until her unsuspecting oaf of a future fiance, already deep in his cups, demanded her unmasking. The other excited Lords and Ladies had cheered, asking her to show herself, and she had been forced to run before they realized their Ser was a she and the steed was stolen.

 _Would they hang me as a horse thief?_ No, she had never heard of a woman being hung for that, let alone a nobly born woman.

 _Send me to be a Septa?_ That seemed more likely, but she was northern, they couldn't expect her to simply convert for illegally enrolling in a tourney.

Maybe they'd just force her to marry old Walder Frey as a punishment. The man's sixth wife, Bethany Rosby, had just died and the decrepit man had been leering at her every chance he got. Her engagement to Lord Robert hadn't been cemented, after all, and Walder Frey was one of the few men she'd be less happy about marrying than the Baratheon heir.

Her thoughts were cut short as her horse was, and she realized it had been no mere scouts on her trail. Two figures in white armor and cloaks topped two equally white horses, and blocked the path of her slight grey palfrey.

She reeled her horse around to find the path behind her equally blocked, by a red haired man on a horse just as red, and the king himself in his ruby encrusted armor, on a black war horse biting at a blood red bridle.

"Not so brave are you now, Laughing Tree?" The red haired man called. She recognized him now, Lord Connington, the king's Hand and the happy bridegroom of the tourney she had just sullied. _Of all the unlucky captors…_ She threw down her sword, and lifted her arms as high as the armor would allow.

King Rhaegar dismounted. As Lyanna stared down at him through the visor, she realized he was even fairer up close than he had seemed across the hall a few nights before. Rhaegar's indigo eyes seemed to bore into her own, and his silvery hair was mussed from his ride. His voice while singing had been so gentle and melodic, now it sounded like iron. "Dismount. Reveal yourself. Cooperate, and this will all go over more easily for you, Ser."

Lyanna bit her lip beneath her visor. She had no choice.

She undid her mismatched gauntlets, throwing them to the ground. The men whose armor Howland took would surely be missing them. They were not ornate, but well made, barely able to ratchet down to the slight size of her wrists. Then came the buckles of the chest piece, a different make than either of the two gauntlets. Her chest felt bruised from where it had bashed against her as she rode, ill fitting as it was even with the riding leathers underneath as padding.

 _How lucky I was that I wasn't hit in this trash. I could have been killed. Stupid, Stupid…_

Last came the helm, it's bucket like quality had learned so well to masculating her voice. Now the king would hear it ring true as she shook out her hair. "I am no Ser, Your Grace. Just a Lady who wanted justice done for her bannerman."

There was a snicker from one of the King's Guard. "This is the mighty knight that unhorsed your brother, Ser Danwelll?"

Lyanna couldn't place the voice of the first king's guard, but Ser Danwell Frey had been appointed to the guard only a few days before, after performing moderately well in the melee.

"Doesn't surprise me, my brother has never been the best judge of character. Or the best rider."

"You're lucky she didn't just turn into a wolf and tear his throat out, these northern creatures-"

"So, my liege," Lord Connington interrupted, patting the neck of his horse. "What are we to do with the little she wolf?"

Lyanna and Rhaegar's eyes were locked. Lyanna tried her best to keep a straight face, to hide her fear, but she knew she had never been good at hiding her feelings. Knowing this made her ever more nervous. Rhaegar though… he looked… she couldn't place it. His pretty mouth seemed to twitch up at the corner.

"Leave the palfrey and the armor. You three fan out, keep the other search parties away from this area for a while. I'll bring Lady Lyanna back to Harrenhal, and this Laughing Tree Knight can fade into the forest, our little secret."

A quiet "Yes, Your Grace," came from the two white cloaks, but Lord Connington instantly protested.

"My King, as your friend and your Hand I must advise against you going alone. We're far out from Harrenhal, and With this large of a crowd, there are sure to be brigands waiting to ambush travelers. And no punishment for the Lady's crimes?"

"I can handle myself, as can Lady Lyanna. And what would you have me do, flog her in the streets?"

"Only if you did it yourself, Your Grace!" There was laughter from all three of the men. Rhaegar seemed to roll his eyes, a most unkingly thing that impressed Lyanna.

He seemed equal parts annoyed and amused with his companions as he ordered "Off with you, be sure to distract young Lord Baratheon especially, chasing this mystery Knight was his idea in the first place."

The three men rode off, leaving Lyanna with the king, fully unsure of herself. Her brothers would be laughing at her, the one time she needed her quick wit all words seemed to get lost between her mind and her mouth. The king walked, the bridle of his war horse in hand, and she followed. After a few moments, the king cleared his throat and asked, "So do all northern ladies sit a horse as well as you, and wear riding leathers and breeches?"

Those questions seemed to open the floodgates. "Lady Barbrey Ryswell taught me to ride. Her family breeds the finest horses in the north. My brother Brandon fostered with her house and when I visited we'd all go riding. As for the leathers, Lady Barbrey does, but not a lot of other ladies do. Most ride side saddle like down here, I guess. I prefer riding leathers and breeches though to dresses, most days."

"Yeah, I prefer leathers and breeches to dresses too, most days," Rhaegar responded, as coolly as if he was talking about the weather. Lyanna scanned his face in confusion before scoffing.

"Was that... Was that a joke?"

"Did it work as one? Lord Jon and Ser Arthur have been telling me to joke more."

Lyanna couldn't hold back her laughter as she shook her head. "I think they would be pleased, Your Grace."

They continued again in silence for a few moments. Muck sucked at their boots as they wove through the undergrowth, the late afternoon light breaking through the canopy to light their way. Lyanna watched King Rhaegar out of the corner of her eye, taking in the high sculpted cheekbones, the narrow nose, the slight body that moved beneath the ornate armor.

 _He's the opposite of Robert, despite them being distant cousins,_ Lyanna thought as she scanned him. _Lean instead of bulky, shimmering instead of filthy, almost awkward to Robert's boisterous surety._

She realized then that, besides the simple fact of him being her king, she knew very little about the man who was mercifully helping her hide her deceit. That he was King, a Targaryen, and, well…

"I… I know this is late, Your Grace, but I wanted to say my condolences for your wife. I know how hard it can be to lose a loved one to the childbed."

He cocked his head slightly. "Who did you lose, my Lady?"

"Call me Lyanna, please… I lost my mother when I was still small. She died trying to bring my little sister into this world. I don't remember her as well as I wish I did… We lost the babe too, the labor lasted so long she died before she could even take a breath. My father was so grieved he locked himself away for a month…" she let herself trail off, realizing she was rambling. Ned had told her more than once that she overshared, made people uncomfortable, while Brandon thought her ramblings were sweet.

"What was your favorite thing about her?"

Lyanna smiled. He was listening, asking questions, more things that Robert seemed incapable of. "She was a wonderful embroiderer. She made these blankets for my brothers and I, they were warm and had little direwolves running around the edges… I think I still have mine somewhere."

Rhaegar smiled, a sad looking thing. "At least you have those happy treasures to hold, Lyanna."

"And at least you have your daughter," Lyanna gave a sad smile back. "Was the song you performed the other night about your Queen, Your Grace? The great beauty lost before it's time?"

The King cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. "Call me Rhaegar, please. And no, it wasn't… it was actually about Summerhall."

"Truly?" Lyanna had heard horror stories about the tragedy there, it's burning and killing of a large portion of the royal family before she was born.

"Truly. I was born there, you know, and I guess I've always… felt close to it. I ride out there when I can, sit in the quiet. It's… oh nevermind," he seemed… flustered? _Could a king get flustered?_ Lyanna wondered.

"It's what? Tell me."

He heaved a heavy sigh as he ducked a low hanging branch, and struggled to get his horse to duck below it as well. "Summerhall seems to just… have her own life. A sad life, but a life. Summerhall is my muse, in a way."

Lyanna felt her brow furrow. "So you sit in the ruins and just… listen, to the wind and such, and that helps you write?"

"Yes, mostly. Doing so allows me to sort all the thoughts that won't let me sleep otherwise."

"Usually it's my legs that won't let me sleep. If I'm too still, they ache until I can run or ride or dance again… why haven't you danced at the feasts the last few nights? I know you've gotten up to play your harp and sing, but did you not take any of those fair maids up on their offers to dance?"

"I prefer playing the music. Or watching, to be honest. I enjoy watching people, especially passionate ones…. You are a very passionate person."

Lyanna felt heat rush to her cheeks. "Oh."

"Only someone with a great passion for life would cry to my songs like you did… then proceed to pour a whole goblet of wine over her brother's head."

Her cheeks reddened even more, and she stumbled over a branch in her distraction. The King's arm reached out, catching her arm. She felt the heat of his fingers through the thin fabric of her shirt.

"I didn't mean to offend, my Lady."

"Lyanna, please. No offence, just..." she trailed off as she tried to think. "The phrase I hear to describe it is usually 'wolf blooded'. Father says my brother Brandon and I run thick with it."

"And this 'wolf blood' drove you to dress as a knight?"

"No… well yes, I guess. I don't know. I just… Howland Reed is my father's bannerman. That makes him my bannerman, my responsibility. He's a good man, he'll be a lord someday and those squires hated him simply for growing up in the Neck, for being a Crannogman. That's not right and I had to do something, and he agreed to help me help him and I ended up in this mess."

"I don't think it's a mess. I think you ended up exactly where you needed to be, and I'm glad it was you behind that laughing tree."

"Thank you, Rhaegar."

By then they were at the edges of the camp. The King climbed back on his horse and rode back into the woods, and Lyanna wove through the huddled tents until she reached her own. Howland was at her door, ringing his hands with worry.

"Were you found, my Lady?"

"Yes." She pushed past him into the tent, and began stripping her leathers.

"Are you in trouble?" he whispered through the fabric of her tent. She could see his slight form pressed up against the fabric. "Do we need to find your father, to leave?"

"No. Our secret is safe," she whispered back. She slid back into the grey dress she had worn out that morning, and ran a brush through her hair. When she slid back out of the tent, she slid her arm through Howland's, and pulled him back towards the tourney grounds. "We must never speak of it again, though, my Lord. All the hunters will return with will be a horse and mismatched armor, and all will rightfully think the Knight of the Laughing Tree was a ghost. We've had our adventure, now it's time to find my family and some dinner. I'm famished."

"Of course, my Lady."

Lyanna wasn't lying when she said she was famished. She was hungry, but not for food. She wanted more of this day, more jousting, more chases, and to see more of Rhaegar, to pick that odd brain of his.

Things she would never do, she knew. Her adventure would be over as soon as the tourney was; she'd marry Robert Baratheon and hate it, she's be cooped up in Storm's End and hate it, no matter how she protested against it.

 _I'll simply have to make today last a lifetime… or cut off all my hair and flee to Bravos. Something…_

X X X

Author's Note

Thank you all for the favs, follows and reviews! I got so excited last night for the feedback I stayed until 4am writing, so the fourth chapter is nearly done and should be up soon. I'm glad you're enjoying werewolf6 and omaribacache316, and thank you Draquia for pointing out the spelling errors in the Prologue, I'll see about updating the source doc to fix them.


	4. Blue Roses, Red Thorns

"Gosh, would you look at this beauty?"

Eddard couldn't be bothered with horses right now. His mind was still lost in the lustful confusion from the night before last's. He found he could think about little else, and was barely keeping up with Brandon and Benjen as they wandered the grounds before the final tilts.

People were still abuzz after the previous day's excitement, with the Knight of the Laughing Tree appearing, knocking a few sorry Sers off their asses, and disappearing just as quick. King Rhaegar, his friend Robert, dozens of other Knights and Lords had gone on the search, but all that had been found were a few loose pieces of armor and a stolen horse.

The melee and archery contests were already over, and the murmurers were packing up their shows, which left only two true events to this tourney: The final tils this afternoon, and the wedding tonight.

"You're in a good mood for being unhorsed yesterday," Benjen quipped to Brandon, who was still gawking at the grey speckled gelding.. Eddard was struck by what foils these brothers of his were; twenty year old Brandon was so tall, broad of jaw and shoulder, flesh and eyes and hair awash in tans and greys and dark browns. Meanwhile, fourteen year old Benjen was almost too sharp of features and tongue, his pale skin and eyes standing in contrast against hair black as pitch.

"The King himself unhorsed me, and no other man in the lists would have been able to. Besides, horses always make me happy," Brandon shrugged off his loss. "They remind me of Barbrey."

"Don't let father hear you say that," Eddard cautioned. "If he hears you speak of any Lady but Catelyn-"

"He'll what, beat me bloody with his riding crop, like we're seven again?" Brandon blustered, whirling on Eddard. "I'm the perfect noblemen when I'm around her, I smile sweet and call her 'my Lady' and listen to her talk about that little ward of her father's and her bloody seven gods, I even wore her favor in the joust! What more can be asked of me? Besides, with any luck our dear King will take the Tully twit and leave me free to marry a woman who understands me, understands the North… You and Ben will understand one day what that's like, then you won't blame me."

 _I do understand, though,_ Eddard thought. His mind drifted back to Ashara's laughing eyes, her soft hair, her softer lips...

"Not me," Benjen sneered. "I don't get all this obsession with Ladies fair." he made a face as he said the last two words. "I'm just going to be a warrior. A Knight, maybe!"

Brandon shook his head. "It's not the Ladies fair part we like, Ben. It's the ones who can be Ladies but still act like dirty wenches, right Ned?"

Eddard sighed. "No, not for me." He turned to Benjen. "There aren't Knights in the North. Knights have to stand vigil before the Warrior in the Sept, or be knighted after a great feat of battle by a King or Lord. Would you turn your back on the old gods?"

"Maybe if it got me a Knighthood."

"Bah, that's not worth thinking on right now. Come on, let's see if we can find Robert and Lya." Brandon marched off through the crowd, followed closely by Ben. _Like a child of the forest chasing a giant,_ Eddard thought as he slipped after them.

Robert and Lyanna were already at their seats, along with Eddard's father, Lord Rickard Stark, and the green eyed Howland Reed. Lord Stark looked stoic as usual, giving only a small nod to his sons when they arrived. Lyanna looked relieved with Robert slid away from her, allowing Brandon, Benjen and Eddard to sit between the two.

They were to the right of the Royal seating, where the Queens Red and Black perched with their respective heirs on their laps. King Rhaegar's throne was empty, as he was one of the four finalists in the jousts. Eddard was disappointed in their seating, as Ashara had told him she'd be sitting with the court ladies, on the left side.

"Why aren't you with your own father and brothers?" Benjen asked Robert, gesturing to the area across the tilts. Dozens of Stormlands Lords sat across from them, including Lord Steffon Baratheon, his wife, and Robert's younger brothers. Steffon and Stannis looked so similar, Eddard realized then, both lean men with the raven hair and ice blue eyes, the biggest difference where their mouths. Lord Steffon's had humor, where Stannis's looked like it was carved of stone.

"They're not as fun," Robert answered with a waggle of his eyebrows, lifting his goblet.

"Yes, and what number of cup are we on already this late morning? Five, six?" Brandon asked sarcastically, winning an approving look from Lyanna.

"Seven, if you'd believe it!" Robert called back. Eddard shook his head at his dear friend. He couldn't tell if Robert was missing the implications on purpose or not, a strategy he had seen put to use in their eight years together in the Eyrie.

"Congrats again on your win, Lord Robert," Eddard said, knowing Robert would bluster at being called 'Lord'.

"My father's not dead yet, Ned. And you could have won that melee just as easily, I don't know why you didn't sign up. We go blow for blow together, easily."

"You know it's not my thing," Eddard said.

"Neither is jousting, for either of us," Robert said with a hiccup, before sipping more wine. "I wish they let the melee winner crown the Queen of Love and Beauty, though. Who would you crown, Ned?"

"You would crown Lyanna."

"I know who I would crown, dimwit!" Robert thundered with a laugh. "I asked who you would crown."

Eddard sighed, before leaning in close. He didn't want Benjen or Brandon hearing; they would run to Lord Rickard before he got the chance to, and they wouldn't understand... Besides, Brandon would never let him live it down, the fact that he suggested they danced in the first place. "You will keep this to yourself?"

"Of course."

"Lady Ashara Dayne. I'm going to ask for her hand."

Robert let out a low whistle, leaning to peer at the Lady where she sat down the lists. Her dress today was a pale orange, much more Dornish in make than the other Ladies. She sat between Lady Wynne Whent, our blushing bride and current Queen of Love and Beauty, and some other young woman of Rhaegar's court who he couldn't place. Ashara saw the two young men peering at her, and gave a small waive.

"Not as fine as your sister, but a woman I would happily bed."

"Take it back," Eddard snapped without thinking.

"Okay, okay…. Wait, Ned, did you… you did! Finally!"

"Quiet!" Eddard hushed him, glancing nervously to see if his brothers were paying attention. They weren't, thankfully, distracted by Howland telling some story about a lizardlion. I don't want anyone to know yet. I don't want to dishonor-"

"Who cares about honor, I've been trying to get you in bed with a woman for as long as I've known you, and it happens as soon as I look the other way? You're eighteen, this should have happened years ago."

Ned shook his head. "I appreciate your concern, brother, but you know I wanted to wait for the right woman, and well, she's it."

"I can see how right she is."

"Take that back! She's beautiful, and a great dancer-"

"Like you have some great opinion on dance-"

"-and she's bright, and we want the same things out of life."

Robert smiled at him. "How drunk were you again?"

"I wasn't… okay I was a… bit drunk but I still mean every word, Robert."

"I know you do, Ned. You know I'm giving you a hard time," Robert bumped against him playfully, spilling some of his wine. "I wish you a warm holdfast, cold ale and a fat firstborn son to name after his uncle Rob, okay?"

Ned smiled. These were the moments he loved best with his adoptive brother, the brother who he fostered with in under the guidance of Lord Arryn. "Thank you, Robert."

"And It'll be the same for Lya and I, just you watch. Well, except Storm's End, not a holdfast… and a son named Ned, not Robert-"

"I get it, brother," Ned laughed, shaking his head. "Now drink your wine before I drown you in it."

Robert went back of his wine, and Eddard thought guiltily over the comments of Lyanna. When Robert asked him to bring the proposal letter north, he had been excited. This man who was like his brother, becoming his goodbrother. But the letter had caused nothing but grief from Lyanna since it's arrival, driving the two siblings apart. He and his sister had gotten into numerous arguments over the Baratheon heir's bastards and drinking, his bad temper and the fights he had gotten into over nothing, leaving Eddard feeling torn between two people he loved most.

"He loves you, Lya," Eddard had promised during their most recent exchange, on the road to Harrenhal. "He'll change for you."

"Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature," she had said before shutting down the discussion completely. Lyanna had barely spoken to him the entire tourney. She seemed to be denying the inevitable. Lord Rickard had been excited to say yes to the proposal, the idea of his only daughter marrying a great Southron Lord.

But then news of the Queen's death came, and all proposals around the Kingdoms seemed to hang in the air, waiting for their answers until the King made his move. Robert considered the deal set in stone, though, and had been calling Lyanna his fiance since before the proposal letter even left his hands in the Eyrie.

Eddard couldn't help but think it set as well. Brandon was right, Rhaegar would take his Tully bride, or he'd take Allei Waynwood or some Bracken or Blackwood, and the realm would stop holding it's breath and sigh with relief at a new Queen.

In the meantime, he half watched the joust as Robert ordered more wine from a serving wench. Lord Yohn Royce tilted against King Rhaegar and lost, a man who had been so sure of seat the past few days falling completely from his horse in the first tilt. The bronze armored lord cursed as he stood, throwing his helm at a squire as the smallfolk cheered their King. Rhaegar's lance was donned with two favors, one black and purple from his mother, the second red and silver from his daughter.

Arthur Dayne came out next to face Barristan Selmy, the face off that Eddard was the most excited for. The Sword of the Morning had been a hero to him since he was small, the great knight who at such a young age had defeated the Smiling Knight, putting an end to the Kingswood Brotherhood. _And this great man will be my goodbrother!_

Eddard signed as he watched the Sword of the Morning hold out his lance for Lady Ashara's favor, soft lilac cloth embroidered with small white stars. _She loves her family as much as I love mine, even if they get on my last nerve... Another way she's perfect…_ He sighed, a dreamy boy in love, suddenly regretting not enlisting. He pictured hoisting his own lance, painted in Stark colors but tipped with that lilac blessing…

A blessing that seemed to help the Sword of the Morning very little. The two Knights broke half a dozen lances on each other before Barrison the Bold finally knocked Ser Arthur clean in the head, a move that caused screams in the crown. Ser Arthur looked dizzy as Barristan helped him up from the dust, and his face was bloody as he removed his helm. Barriston helped his defeated foe off the field and into his sister's arms.

Eddard stood to go offer assistance, but Robert pulled him back down. "They're _fine_ , Ned, lesnot miss thaction," his friend slurred, then yelled for more wine.

"No, no more wine, I think," Eddard told the servant when he rushed over, to Robert's dismay. Eddard shook his head, and decided Robert needed more tending than his hero and his love.

Once the squires had picked up the pieces of broken lance and scattered dry dirt over the blood, the final tilt began.

Ser Barristan the Bold took up on the nearside of the lists. The white enameled scales of his armor were almost blinding in the midday sun, and a slight breeze stirred the white cloak on his back and the white mane of his charger.

All eyes were on the far side of the lists, though, as King Rhaegar rode out on his midnight coated warhorse. His helm was already on, it's ruby red plume tossing with each step the horse took. The plume matched the rubies in his chest plate perfectly, the three headed jeweled dragon there seemed to swallow sunlight. Every maiden cheered, waving their favors over the railing to him.

He circled the list, waving to his subjects, but taking none of the favors offered. He paused before the stand where his mother, brother, and daughter sat, giving a bow to each of them, before returning to his place and taking the lance from his squire.

Ned hadn't been paying attention to his blood brothers, but it was at this point that Benjen grabbed his arm. "This is exciting. It's a rematch, really."

"What?"

"At Lord Steffon's birthday tourney a few years ago, at Storm's End. We didn't get to go but Robert, you were there, right?" He didn't even pause to let Robert answer. "Ser Barristan won in the final tilt against Rhaegar, when he was still prince. I hope he wins again."

"I'll put five dragons on the King, against Ser Barristan."

Benjen, Eddard and Brandon all peered down the row at their sister, whose smile made her look like a wolf in sheep's clothing. "I'll take that bet!" Benjen exclaimed, eyes lighting up. Both siblings pulled out small pouches, and placed the coins on the railing before them.

"Whamakes you so confident in, heh?" Robert slurred, staring Lyanna down.

She smiled. "Well, like Benjen said, the King lost last time. It'll make him fight harder this time. Plus, he's had a few years of training since their last tilt, and while he's still Bold, the Ser is also getting old."

Brandon chuckled. "Well said, sweet sister. I'm siding with you." He slapped down his own gold dragons, lining between Lyanna's and Benjen's. "Another five, on the King."

Eddard felt Robert inflate next to him. "Five and twenty dragons, on Ser the Old," his friend growled.

"Yeah!" Benjen hooted.

"No, Robert that's foolhardy," Eddard pressed his friend, who was flailing about for his coin purse. "Stick to the five, like everyone else."

"Izit fool hard to be confident in a great hero?" Robert blustered, dropping his entire coin purse on the railing.

"When you blow all of the money your Lord father gave you for the day? Yes."

"Ah Neddy, always counting the coppers."

A horn blew, and the two riders charged. Everyone in the stands seemed to jump to their feet, cheering loudly for either side. Black met white in a spray of splinters, as both lances shattered on their opponent's shields.

The King circled his horse right in front of the Stark family, almost coming close enough to see the indigo eyes peek through the visor. His squire rushed up with a new lance, and before he could even catch his breath, the King's horse was thundering back down the lists towards Ser Barristan.

Benjen and Robert were a few of the only people cheering when King Rhaegar missed on the second run. He was struck, and almost slid off his horse, to the scared screams of the audience.

"What should I buy with your gold, brother?" Benjen asked Brandon, throwing a playful elbow into his ribs. Brandon ruffled his hair.

"Don't count your dragons before they hatch, boy, look!"

For King Rhaegar had steadied himself, and was thundering back towards them, lance locked into place. Barristan charged too, both men calling out their house words as they struck in the center. Barristan hit, lance coming apart, but Rhaegar's lance found the sweet spot mid chest. The old knight fell from his horse, and the crowd roared for their Dragon King.

"I thank you kindly, goodbrother." Brandon grinned as he snatched the purse. The grin turned to a wince when Lyanna struck him. He looked at her, meeting her offence with his own. "What? I didn't mean you and him, I meant him and 'Neddy'!"

Eddard stood. He could have struck his brother then, all three of his brothers. He looked down the lists, past the grandstand with the royal family, and saw Ashara sitting back down, Ser Arthur squeezing in beside her, his head wrapped in fresh bandages.

But Benjen pulled him back down, as Lord Whent had appeared on the royal stage with the crown. Eddard could see the thing was thick, a circle of blue winter roses, ranging from icy to lapis in shade. King Rhaegar stayed ahorse, but pulled off his helm, setting it on the edge of the dias. Lord Whent, the chubby white haired man in bright yellow, beamed at him and the cheering crowd.

"King Rhaegar Targaryen, First of Your Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. You have honored me greatly, not just by attending this wedding tourney and blessing the marriage of my only daughter to your Lord Hand, but in riding with all the strength and courage of a true Dragon King. Nothing makes me happier than being able to present you with the grand prize! Ten thousand gold dragons, the victor's shield-" He gestured to his son Whittaker, a youngster who had been serving his brothers as squire over the course of the tourney, walking towards the King with a large tower shield. The shield was painted, quartered with the red-griffons-on-white of house Connington and the black-bats-on-yellow of house Whent.

"-and of course, the Queen of Love and Beauty's crown, yours to reward to the Lady of your choice."

The crowd hushed, and Rhaegar's voice carried over the slight breeze. "I thank you, my Lord, for entertaining us with such a spectacle. The gold I shall donate, part to the Seven, and part back to the wellbeing of your own lands, for being such an accommodating host." There was a cheer at that, and Lord Whent himself looked relieved.

"The shield, as well, I chose to gift, to my Lord Hand and dearest friend, Jon Connington. May it serve as a reminder of this happy wedding day, and a symbol of your strong marriage with the wonderful Wynne Whent." There were more cheers as Lord Connington and Lady Wynne stood from their seats near Ashara, and waved to the attendees.

"Wynne looks much more excited for this attention than Jon does," Brandon observed smugly. Eddard had to agree, despite his lingering annoyance with his elder brother. Even from here he could see how tight-lipped the bridegroom appeared compared to his laughing, erratic bride.

"I will, however, happily take the crown."

The entire audience seemed to take a collective breath. Every unmarried Lady and her father seemed to sit forward, smiling, hoping.

"Who do you think he'll crown?" Benjen asked to no one in particular.

"A future Queen, hopefully." Lord Rickard said wistfully, surprising his four children.

Rhaegar steered his horse away from the Starks, towards Ashara and her Ladies. Eddard tried to swallow his nerves and nearly choked. _What would I do if he crowned Ashara? Please, anyone but the Lady Ashara, please…._

His gods appeared to hear his pleadings, as the King road past her and the Ladies of his court, curving around the far side of the lists. As he rode forward, all the smiles seemed to die in his wake. He circled slowly, painfully slowly, past the Tully sisters, past Westerland Ladies all in red and gold, past Lord Arryn's niece and Tyrell cousins, curving farther and farther around until finally he hit the area filled with the Northerners.

 _Oh no_... Eddard cursed the selfish, short sightedness of his prayer. It should have been _'anyone but the Lady Ashara... Or my sister'_

But before his sister was exactly where King Rhaegar stopped. The Lords and Ladies in attendance we're whispering, full of confusion, except for the Northern nobles. The Umbers, the Karstarks, the Glovers, all cheered the choosing of their liege Lord's daughter.

Lyanna looked as confused as every other Lady in attendance as she stood, and fell to a curtsy before the King.

The King cleared his throat, and all the whispers fell away. "Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell," he announced, loud enough for all to hear. "I want to give you this crown, for it is fitting. You are the most beautiful woman I believe I have ever met, and the most fascinating. You've entranced me."

Lyanna's eyes were great grey moons, rising over the hands that covered her gasping mouth.

The King continued, "But I want this crown to also represent something more. I want it to represent the crown I wish you to take up. If you would have me, and if your father would accept, my Lady, I would have you as my bride."

"Yes!" The muffled answer came with zero hesitation. Her hands dropped from her face as tears dropped from her eyes, and she leaned her head forward. "Yes, my King, I would gladly be your bride." Rhaegar smiled, a large and true smile, something Eddard had heard was, well, unheard of. The Dragon King laid the blue rose crown gently upon the She-Wolf's head, and there was polite applause.

Eddard had been so enthralled, he didn't notice Robert stand, or draw a sword, only that he had begun to slip through the railings to the ground. Jolted from confused happiness to dread, he grabbed for his friend. "Robert, stop."

"No." Robert pulled against Eddard's grip on his doublet.

"Rob-"

X X X

The lights had gone out in Eddard's world for a moment. His head felt like a horse had stomped on it, and his face was hot and sticky. When the lights came back, there was blue spring sky straight above him, and blue spring sky eyes staring down at him. Four eyes, two eyes, four again, folding and blurring in and out of each other.

"Ned, Ned! Wake up are you okay?!"

There was a scream somewhere out of his vision, the scream of some dying animal. There was an earthquake below him, jumbling him…

His vision refocused. It was Benjen's eyes above him, he almost struck Benjen in the face with his own as he sat up. The world was blurring, slowing, like a smudged painting. The earthquake was the feet of a thousand fleeing figures. The scream was the dying black war horse, fallen to the ground, it's haunch and stomach torn open from the jagged swipes of a greatsword, it's entrails and blood painting the dust below it pink and red.

And there was Robert Baratheon, stepping over the dying horse, gripping his sword with both hands. He walked towards King Rhaegar, who was on the ground, scrambling backwards. Ser Jonothar Darry and Ser Lewyn Martell charged in from either side, white cloaks flying out behind them as they tried to put themselves between Robert and Rhaegar.

The the Lords and Ladies of the Vale, the Reach, the Riverlands were scattering, struggling to get past one another away from the violence. Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and newly appointed Ser Danwell Frey were pulling Prince Viserys and Princess Myrcella off the grand stand, away from the carnage. Eddard could see his Lady Ashara, yelling at her brother, who had tried to stand to fight and subsequently fell to the ground.

"He struck me," Eddard whispered, touching his face. His hand came away bloodsoaked, and his nose and brow throbbed with every heartbeat. Eddard pushed away the concerned Benjen, and slid through the railings down to the ground.

Even drunk, and wielding a less favored weapon, Robert was a rabid beast in a fight. He had seen Robert taking on Knights in the Vale whilst drunk, for fun. He usually won. Robert roared with every swing of his blade, screaming, "-my bride! You thieving, spineless lizard! Damned inscest born coward, I'll kill you for touching what's mine!"

Jonothar reached him first, and barely exchanged any blows with him before Robert caught him in a heavy down swing, hitting the weak spot where the shoulder jointed, carving downward through his torso. The man coughed blood, and was dead by the time he hit the ground. Lewyn made it to Robert as his brother hit the dirt, and Barristan appeared to help Rhaegar up.

Robert fought forward, desperate to get to the King. Unarmored, he moved quicker, but lay vulnerable. Lewyn tried to stay between them, getting in a strike on Robert's leg. Robert roared, seemingly unhampered by his injury, and their blades locked with an echoing _clang_.

Eddard stumbled forward, his world still spinning. Everything in his vision seemed to slowly turn red as he knelt down next to the fallen Knight. Ser Jonothar's sword was well balanced, well taken care of. Eddard's hand tightened around the grip as he stood, and moved towards his best friend.

Robert had been cut again, this time on his side, but it was Lewyn who was in trouble. A lucky swing had chopped both of his arms, the blade managing to hit at unprotected wrists. The man screamed as waterfalls of blood drained from the stumps. Robert swung again, ending the man once and for all.

"Robert, stop!" Eddard screamed, lifting the dead man's sword. Robert heaved, turning his head. His face was blood spattered. _Like a bloody demon…_

"Traitor! You defend him?!" Robert screamed, raising his own blade higher.

"This is madness! He is your King!" Eddard moved forward, keeping his blade level. Everything else seemed to fade out of existence. He couldn't' tell the difference between screams of terror and the wind, which seemed to be picking up. "You're killing for no reason!"

"No reason!? He's taking my love! He's taking our family, Ned!" He had fully distracted Robert now, who stumbled back towards him.

"Please, brother, drop your weapon," Eddard pleaded. He let Robert get close, and tried a move Lord Arryn had taught the two of them, trying to disarm him. Robert resisted, though, and struck Eddard in the head again, with the pommel of the sword. Eddard fell, and his vision blurred again. He kept a tight grip on his sword, and looked up to see three of Robert standing over him, slowly raising his blade. "Please brother, don't!"

"Don't call me brother, you traitorous bastard!" Eddard closed his eyes.

It was over in a flash.

Eddard had moved on instinct. Another move he had drilled too many times with Lord Arryn and Robert and the other wards at the Eyrie, a move for this very situation. Blood leaked down the blade of the stolen sword, over the guard and onto his fingers. He opened his eyes to see the blade buried deep within Robert's stomach, having opened him from groin to rib as he had tried to finish his own swing.

Robert's sword had fallen to the ground, and was slowly being encompassed by the pooling blood as it streamed down from Robert's stomach.

No… NO!

Eddard couldn't tell if he had thought or screamed that. He let go of the blade and caught his childhood friend, his brother, his sparring partner in his arms. The icy blue eyes were gaining another level of cold, and the pink in his lips and cheeks was receding to snow white. "Robert, why? I'm sorry… I didn't…."

Something dripped from his face, onto Robert's dying one. A tear? Blood? Sweat? He couldn't tell. Everything was red.

There was pressure on his shoulder, and he flinched, his whole body jerking, losing his grip on Robert. He turned his head to see his father's his broad face, a face lined with worry, and an equally broad hand extended in offering. "Eddard, stand. Please."

Eddard swallowed. His mouth was dry and tasted like iron. "I… I don't know if…"

"Give me your hand, son. It's over."

Eddard took his father's hand, and was pulled up, out from under his dead brother. _Kin slayer_. They weren't brothers by blood, but Robert was still kin. And he had killed him.

The rest of the world flooded back into Eddard's vision as he was turned away from the corpses. Before him now, was the King, flanked by Barristan Selmy and Lyanna. The two appeared to be holding him up as he favored his left leg.

"Goodbrother," the King said quietly. Eddard winced at that endearment. That was meant to come from Robert's mouth, from Ser Arthur's. He refused to look the King in the eye, instead locking onto Lyanna's. Grey like Valyrian steel, eyes that were twins to his own.

"You saved me," the King continued, as Eddard searched Lyanna's soul. _Why did you do this, shame him in front of so many…_ He knew why she had. She clung to the King's arm so desperately, like a log drifting through rapids, like he was all that was keeping her afloat. "Not only did you save me, but you saved me from a beloved friend, when my own Kingsguard fell before him. I… You are the epitome of a loyal subject. You are a hero."

 _No… don't glorify me for this…_

"I would honor you, for what you have done for me today. I would appoint you to my Kingsguard, Eddard Stark."

"Of course he will accept." Lord Rickard's voice was like a mountain. _A Kingsguard takes no wife… Ashara.._

"I don't want that." It was barely audible, a whisper. No one noticed.

He looked for Ashara in the crowd, and found her, still by her brother. She was crying. She was frightened. Her face was filled with horror, that pretty smiling face twisted into a grimace and... _She was staring at him… She's afraid of me… I don't deserve you, my love..._

"I… I am no knight," He said, louder this time. "And I will not forsake the old gods"

"You don't need to. I can knight whom I wish as King. Ser Barristan, your sword…"

 _I don't want this… I want her… but I don't deserve anything else… I deserve to be dead, next to Robert…._ Eddard closed his eyes as his father's hand pressed downward on his shoulder, and he sunk to his knees. He felt the tip of the blade tap either shoulder, but all the sound had gone out of the world. He felt like he was under water, in the dark, everything muffled.

He felt a heavy cloth drop over his back, and he was pulled back to his feet. He kept his eyes closed as he was lead along. His stomach cramped up, and he doubled over, cursing. His ears could hear again, and he realized his father had been pulling him along, and now was kneeling, checking his abdomen. Eddard could see the edges of a white cloak curling about his body, a blood splattered thing that made him feel ill.

"-didn't see you get struck there, and your flesh looks fine. I'm more worried about that broken nose honestly." His father stood, and Eddard realized they were already inside one of the towers. "As I was saying though, you've done more than I could have dreamed today. You'll be at your sister's side, protecting her, and it's well known that the Kingsguard is like a second small council to the King…"

Eddard had never heard his father say so much at once. He stopped listening again, and allowed himself to be lead down the dark, tunnel like hall, to wherever his future now lay.

X X X

Author's Note

This chapter took longer to write than I thought it would, in part because it ended up being about twice as long as anything I've posted so far, in part due to the subject matter. It's hard to kill your darlings, so to speak, and sword-fight-action-scenes are difficult for me. Any input on improvements would be appreciated.

I'll try to get the next chapter up soon, but I'm working on remodeling a basement this weekend so we'll see how much time I find to write.

Thanks to J and The Last Smith for reviews. Every time I see a new review or new follows and favs, it inspires me. :)


	5. A Political Meeting

Author's Note:

This chapter took a minute to get written out, as I have been moving and getting ready for my semester to start back up. This chapter will be a bit dense, as one might expect following the aftermath of the previous chapter. I hope it doesn't disappoint! Comments appreciated, as always.

X X X

"Gam-ma, what? Gam-ma, what?"

Myrcella had been asking her this question over and over again for hours. Joanna swore the little girl could sense every emotion, especially anger and stress. Not even the wedding had distracted her for more than a few moments, with the massive feast, the singers and musicians, the dancing.

Granted, it hadn't distracted anyone else.

Between the Lords upset over their daughters being snubbed, and the fury from the Stormlanders who were upset over their heir's death, many people had already left Harrenhal or were in the process of leaving. The Hall of A Hundred Hearths had been hushed, with dozens of empty seats and even less feet on the dance floor. The bride and bridegroom themselves had only graced the floor once.

The King made only the briefest of appearances, the leg the horse had fallen on wrapped, with Ser Gerold Hightower keeping him upright. The Stark girl had been there as well, standing awkwardly beside him in a ghost grey gown. Her face twitched with guilt when The King had demanded, after the bedding, a meeting with every high Lord, and their heirs or representatives, in attendance in Lord Whent's solar. She slipped away as soon as the announcement was made, not even speaking to her soon-to-be husband.

"Do you really think you can resolve all this with some quick round table talk?" Joanna had hissed under her breath at the young King, confronting him as he left the hall.

"I can try," Rhaegar had said, sounding resigned. "It's better to try this than to see more blood spilled."

 _Fanciful Rhaegar, always the diplomat._ Joanna couldn't imagine it going well, but where the King went, so did Myrcella, and so did she.

But how could Joanna tell a child who could barely talk what was happening? This girl with her green, questioning eyes, her daughter's eyes. "A meeting, my love. A very important one. It'll decide…" She realized too late she couldn't finish that sentence. "No matter what happens, you're a Princess. Remember that sweetling. You're a Princess, a dragon. Most importantly, you're a Lannister, and if anyone harms you, they will hear me roar."

She whispered this as they walked down the dim corridors, her face pressed into the Princess' silvery curls. The only person near was Ser Danwell Frey, wearing a bored expression and a white cloak. Joanna wasn't very worried about him, he was one of the Lannister's Freys, and she considered it a small victory that she had gotten him on the Kingsguard. Lord Walder Frey was near seventy, decrepit, and had more children and grandchildren children than any man should. Many of the Freys were flocking to the Lannisters, rightfully assuming that Lord Tywin would push for his goodbrother Emmon Frey and sister Genna Frey would be Lord and Lady of The Crossing, second son or no.

When the trio finally reached the stairway that lead up to the solar, she was surprised to find it guarded not by one of the Kingsguard, but a Whent soldier. She took a deep breath to steady herself before declaring, "Lady Joanna Lannister, representative for House Lannister of Casterly Rock, here with Princess Myrcella Targaryen."

The guard looked confused. "No disrespect, milady, but my recollection was that the King called for a meeting of all the great Lords of the Kingdoms, and their heirs or representatives, not a grandmother and a mewling babe."

"It always amuses me when the phrase 'no disrespect' is used. It seems what always follows is the most disrespectful thing possible, don't you agree, Lady Lannister?"

The retort came from the shadows to her right, before she could even process what had been said. Joanna and the guard turned their heads to see a lean figure emerge. A familiar figure, Joanna was relieved to notice.

At four and twenty years, fresh back from six years of travel in Essos, the man was built like a colt; long legs of wired muscle, meant for running and jumping, a mane of black hair that arched into a widow's peak on his brow. He wore his signature dusk red cape over a shirt and breeches of thick brown wool.

"And you are?" the guard asked indignantly.

"Oberyn Nymeros-Martell of Dorne, representing Prince Doran of Dorne, also accompanied by my daughter, Nymeria Sand." A small girl of maybe five, willow thin with braided hair, peered around the edge of Oberyn's red cloak. The guard's eyes widened, and Oberyn seemed pleased that his reputation had preceded him.

"I agree, my Prince," she smiled at Oberyn, meeting his black eyes. Eyes he had inherited from her best friend, his mother, the deceased Princess Tryselle Martell. She turned back to the guard. "King Rhaegar will be especially displeased to hear his goodmother and only child were treated in such a way, don't you think?"

"What is your name?" Oberyn asked, voice somehow managing to be both calm and menacing.

"I.. a thousand apologies for my behavior, please," the guard moved from his post and pushed the door open. "You are all free to attend."

"We were always free to attend. Now answer me," Oberyn moved uncomfortably close to the soldier, staring him down. "What is your name?"

The guard swallowed. "Pate of Harrentown."

"Good boy. You are dismissed, Pate of Harrentown. Our good white cloak here shall overtake your post." The guard looked like he was going to protest, but thought better of it and walked away. Oberyn turned to her, and grinned, giving a bow. "My Lady Lannister, Princess Myrcella, would you allow me and my daughter the pleasure of escorting you up the stairs?"

"We would be honored. Myrcella, say hello to Prince Oberyn and Lady Nymeria."

"Hullo 'ince Obi, Lay Nymer," Myrcella babbled, bringing a grin to Oberyn's face.

It pained her to offer the title of 'Lady' to the young bastard girl, but she supposed she would have to get used to it, especially to keep the Dornish close. She shifted Myrcella in her arms, tucking the girl into the crook of her left hip, to leave her right arm open to snake its way through Oberyn's. They began climbing the swirling staircase, with little Nymeria leading the way.

"Congratulations on the birth of another granddaughter, by the way," Oberyn said once they were through the door.

Joanna kept her face calm, but internally she cringed. "Elia wrote you?"

"Oh yes, she writes me all the time. She's very happy at the Rock, something I must thank you for. She had been so afraid, leaving Dorne, but Jaime has let her be independent, and your Lord husband has given her a lot of responsibility, and is listening to her council."

She scanned his face out of the corner of her eye, but he gave nothing away. _Maybe she hasn't told him everything. Thank the Seven…_

Jaimie letting her be independent was a polite way of putting it. It would be more accurate to say he hadn't gone near her since after Cersei's death. The image of him finding out still haunted her, when he pushed past the guards and saw them taking her body. She had expected more screaming, more ranting and raving and threatening, some big outburst. Instead she had been met with dead eyes, eyes that pierced the soul to it's very center with it's loneliness.

The only outburst had come when she tried to show him Myrcella. "If you put that murderer in my arms, I'll throw her from the top of Maegor's Holdfast, and no one will stop me." She kept the infant away from him.

Jaime stood vigil over Cersei's body the entire seven days it lay in the sept, barely taking food or water the entire time. After, she had packed him up in a cart and sent him home to Casterly Rock, where he had promptly begun his new routine of sleeping, drinking until sickness, and sleeping again.

Tywin had given up on their son since then. Joanna remembered his note from the day before, which felt like ages ago: _you playing nursemaid to a lost cause produced by the second to largest failure of our children._ She considered herself lucky that this was the only letter that had made it to Rhaella, thanks to Maester Pycelle. To have the Dowager Queen know any more of her family strife would make everything much worse.

Tywin's gooddaughter, though, had surprised him in many ways. When Joanna had pushed for the pairing, Tywin had taken it as purely sentimental, based solely on her love for her old friend Princess Tryselle, but Joanna knew Elia would be useful. Raised in Dorne, the girl had a sense of agency many Westerland Ladies lacked. Her sharp wit came out in both light conversation and practical discussion, and she had a head for organizing and numbers that both Joanna and her husband quickly valued. Even from the sickbed she often took to, she was a great organizer, and used trusted stewards to see her visions carried out.

But her helpfulness would only go so far if Jaime refused to bed her. When Tywin had visited for Myrcella's first name day, he had informed Joanna of what he planned to do. Joanna had been hurt; she couldn't tell if this was purely a desire for a worthy heir, or if a genuine connection had grown between him and her friend's daughter, but she had accepted. _The things we do for family, for legacy…_

"I'm sure my husband and son were both disappointed it was a girl." _Tywin always wanted another son._

Oberyn laughed. "I will say this for neither the first nor the last time, sons are by far overrated. I am proof of that, my Lady. Have you heard that my fourth daughter was born recently?"

 _Another bastard. One from a whore, another from a noble in Essos, yes another from a septa. Now what, an acrobat?_ "I had not, my Prince."

"Her mother is a ship's captain, from the Summer Isles. That's where the girl is now, once she's old enough to take the journey, she'll come to stay with her sisters in the Water Gardens," He was staring at little Nymeria, who walked ahead of them. "I was going to bring my Obara to the meeting tonight, too, but I feel political discussion is not her thing. Too much of her mother in her. Nym though, Nym was made for this, right my love?"

"Yes father," The girl said cheerily, not looking back at Oberyn. They were getting close to the top now, and he paused, feet split between two stairs.

"You know, my Lady, it's a shame the rest of Westeros doesn't follow Dornish Law."

"How so?"

"Cersei was the elder of your twins, yes? By Dornish Law, your little Myrcella would be the undisputed next Queen of Westeros, and heir of the Rock."

Joanna nodded grimly, stopping two steps above Oberyn. "Jaime came out grasping Cersei's ankle. My daughter loved her brother so much, she would have happily seen him be Lord of the Rock in her place while she lived as Queen." _She would be ashamed of him now, drunken lout that he's become._

"Elia would have appreciated that sentiment, for her own child's sake. I just wanted to make sure you knew, Dorne knows what little Myrcella is owed. Elia wants the best for her niece, as do Prince Doran and I."

"Thank you, Oberyn." They shared a smile of agreement, before ascending the final steps.

They entered the solar, and found it to be much like the rest of the castle: too big, too dark, too empty. The black stone walls seemed to suck at the candle light, leaving the corners of the room dim. The ceiling was too high, rafters receding into shadow. The center of the room was filled with a large, round table, made of the same black slate as the rest of the castle. Joanna swore she could see char marks in the stone, and couldn't help but imagine the room engulfed with dragon fire all those years ago.

She wondered if Rhaegar was thinking the same thing. He was staring at the table, tracing the rough stone absently, as he sat at it's head. His head was adorned with his crown, a new thing that had been forged for his coronation: A golden band set with square cut rubies and onyxes, modeled after the crowns of the Conqueror and the Conciliator and the Unlikely. Another chair had been pulled next to his, and his injured leg lay elevated upon it, propped up by a piss yellow pillow stitched with crooked bats.

The King wasn't the only one in the room, though. Ser Gerold Hightower sat in the corner, ever vigilant. Joanna wondered where the rest of the Kingsguard could possibly be. To the King's right sat Lord Rickard Stark, with his heir Brandon behind him. The two wore matching wolf pelt cloaks, pinned with silver direwolf broaches.

To the right of the Starks was Lord Hoster Tully was there as well, with his brother, Brynden the Blackfish. Hoster's ruffled shirt was the bright red of his house, and the Blackfish wore blue, with his striped Tully cloak bearing his signature black fish clasp. Joanna took the seat next to Hoster, letting Myrcella down onto the floor.

"King fa, King fa!" The Princess held out her arms as she circled the table, running to her father.

Lord Mace Tyrell, who sat across from Lord Hoster, jiggled as he laughed. "You must be happy she doesn't say that the other way around, my Lady." Joanna gave a grimace as Oberyn sat between her and Mace. The Lord of Highgarden, while he still bore hints of his handsome youth, had always bothered her. _He thinks he's much more clever than he is… at least that mother of his isn't here. If she was sitting where he was, she'd walk out of this somehow owning the Kingdoms._

"Where are the Lords Arryn and Baratheon, Your Grace?" _The sooner this is over with, the better._

"They'll be here soon, I'm sure," The King assured her, lifting Myrcella onto his lap. The little girl curled into her father's shoulder, yawning.

"Wine, my Lady?" The voice at her elbow startled her. _A Prince acting a page, how quaint._

"Watered down, please, Prince Viserys. We all witnessed today what too much wine can do to one's head."

"I will have some as well, your Grace," Oberyn said. Joanna watched as the boy went, spritely in his motions. She was pleased to see his mother wasn't here. Joanna guessed she was protesting due to his choice in a new wife. How Rhaella had puffed up when Rhaegar asked her to be his Queen! Like some cat whose tail had been yanked.

Joanna had to agree, the Stark girl was an idiotic choice: The North was a backwater, the Starks hadn't truly dabbled in Southron politics since Cregan's "Hour of the Wolf" after the Dance of Dragons. What would the crown have to gain from such a match? Surely no where near as much as it had just lost with the death of Robert, the King's cousin. If anything were to happen to Rhaegar now, with Viserys and Myrcella being so young, a council could be called and everything could slip to the Baratheons if they fought hard enough.

Not to mention if this couldn't be peacefully resolved…

But Joanna knew this Lady Lyanna could be worked to her own advantage. The girl would know nothing of the workings of court, would have no influence. Not to mention, a son of hers would make a match for Myrcella, in the Targaryen way, and once and for all push Viserys aside. _I'm sure Jaime and Cersei wished they had been born Targaryens,_ she thought, sadness tugging on her heartstrings.

"Thank you, your Grace," she cooed to the boy as he handed her a silver cup. His lilac eyes brightened under the praise, though he looked conflicted about taking it, and quickly moved onto Oberyn. Little Nymeria was watching the boy, predatory smile seeming to unnerve the Prince even more. Joanna noticed, with some amusement, that Mance's heir, Willas, was staring in turn at little Nymeria. _I wish that boy all of Mance's beauty, and all of his grandmother's sense,_ Joanna thought, shaking her head at the brunette boy.

Four sets of feet moved up the stairs, rhythmically moving their bearers across the room. Joanna turned to see Lord Steffon and his son Stannis, but to her surprise, no Jon Arryn. Instead, young Elbert Arryn was there, followed by Denys the Darling Arryn. Elbert had slick, oily hair and a distended gut, the poor boy rumored to already had a stomach the like's of his dead father's. Denys, on the other hand, could have been a Lannister in his beauty, long and waved sandy hair, bright blue eyes and a smile that was almost too big.

All four men gave short bows as they entered, and Elbert spoke up quickly. "Your Grace, my uncle sends his apologies. He is feeling unwell, and will not be here tonight."

 _Well this isn't a good sign, the Lord who fostered both Robert and Eddard refusing to come. He saw those boys as his own sons, more so than these distant cousins and grand nephews squabbling over being his heir,_ Joanna thought. Her eyes went back to Myrcella, and ideas started swirling in her head.

Elbert and Denys moved next to Lord Tyrell, leaving the only positions open for Lord Baratheon immediately next to the King himself. Steffon took the chair, with the stoic Stannis grinding his teeth behind him.

"I want to start by thanking you for all attending," Rhaegar said quietly, stroking the hair of his quickly dozing daughter. Prince Viserys poured more wine for the newcomers, then dutifully took his spot standing at the King's right elbow. "There will be no representative of House Greyjoy, as no one of high enough standing from the Iron Isles could be found to attend."

Joanna could never tell if the reason Rhaegar spoke the way he did was to force people to lean in and listen, or because he couldn't bring himself to speak up in difficult situations. Either way, everyone present and their companions were leaning in, as Rhaegar gestured to his left. "Lord Steffon, Lord Stannis, as you two are the more injured parties of the day, I would like to start with you having the floor to air your grievances."

Stannis seemed to tense up at this, a surprising idea considering how high strung the boy was already. Steffon stayed surprisingly calm, though she could see his fists ball slightly where they lay on the table. "Your Grace, I just came from the Sept, where my eldest son's body is now laying. My wife, Seven help her has been in hysterics, is still in hysterics." His voice began to crescendo, his body nearly rising from his seat as he spoke. "My youngest, Renly, is confused and shaken. Rhaegar, by the Seven I am your Master of Laws, and you publicly shame my heir by disregarding an official betrothal-"

"Forgive me, my Lord," Lord Rickard broke in, raising his hand slightly. "It was not an official betrothal"

"It was arranged to be arranged, the official announcement was to happen after-"

"But it hadn't happened yet. It hadn't been sworn under the eyes of your gods, or mine, my Lord. It had been discussed, extensively discussed, but it wasn't official."

Steffon's face was turning red. "Your sigil should by a fox, Stark. Or something slimy."

"Either way, my Lord, your son's reaction shouldn't have been to draw his weapon," Joanna found herself saying. "He made a very public attempt on the King's life. No one can deny that treason."

Steffon looked deflated, his eyes casting downward. "I will not deny that."

Denys cleared his throat from his position behind Elbert. "If I may speak, my Lords, Elbert and I spent a lot of time with both Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, as they lived as our uncle's wards. Lord Robert wasn't a bad man. He had a temper, and a love of the drink, but didn't we all at that age?"

"My son acted brashly. He acted foolishly, and he lost it life for it, to a boy who claimed to be his best friend. And you gave that boy a white cloak for it! Added insult to injury to insult-"

"He would have been killed either way," Oberyn said quietly, causing all heads to turn. "Or sent to the wall. No man can raise his sword with intent to kill the king and live on to keep his titles and his dignity, especially after killing high standing Kingsguard. Dorne would not have allowed Ser Lewyn to go unavenged."

"Aye, the Prince is right," Brynden Tully spoke up. "House Darry will mourn Ser Jonothor as well, and would have called for justice."

Steffon smashed his hand on the table, causing many around the table to jump. "And will the Stormlands not mourn their heir!? Will I not call for justice for my boy? Robert was barely a man, and he's paid for his mistake with his life. How will the honor of my house be repaid? How-" He cleared his throat. Joanna swore she could almost see the man's eyes well. "How will the blood of my son be repaid?"

"How would you wish it be repaid, cousin?" Rhaegar implored. "I do not with to punish you or house for Robert's mistake. He was one man acting alone, and I acknowledge the… hurt that must be there over the time and resources lost discussing the betrothal with the North-"

"You can start by retracting that honor you put on my son's killer. To place him in the Kingsguard-"

"-he proved he could guard the King, better than a few were able to," Mance Tyrell broke in, drawing killing glares from many around the table. Joanna internally shook her head.

"And what would you have done with _my_ son, Lord Steffon?" Lord Rickard asked pointedly.

"Send him to the wall, like the murderer he is."

Brandon Stark laughed at this. "You forget, my Lord, the Knight's Watch still holds honor in the North. More honor than the Kingsguard, even." Joanna was impressed, she couldn't' tell if the boy was bluffing to save his brother's skin or not.

"Exiled to Essos, then! Stripped of all noble titles. "

"My Lord, the boy saved the King's life, even if it was at the cost of your son's. Let him be honored for good in what he did, and our house will repay the bad in another way. I am willing to pay you the full dowry we discussed for Lyanna's marriage to your son, the good Northern ironwood and wool. I will even throw in a chest of Manderly minted silver."

"Can coin wash away blood?"

"Can more blood? Can the ruining of another man's life?" The King asked. The room was quiet for a moment.

"Even with the coin, which I will take, this still leaves my heir without a bride from one of the great houses," Steffon huffed.

"My Lord, that can still be arranged," Lord Hoster Tully finally spoke up. _Devious man, and opportunistic,_ Joanna thought. She was never fond of the Hoster, especially when he went behind her back and tried to talk Tywin out of their Dornish match in exchange for his Auburn haired tarts. "While my Catlyn is set to wed already, my girl Lysa is still unmatched. We Tullys might not have the grand history of the Starks, but I'm sure we could find ways to compensate." _All for the low, low price of seeing his grandchildren head three great houses._

Stannis finally took the chance to speak up. "I must say, Lord father, I would be much happier with Lady Lysa as mine own bride, instead of Robert's leavings." the boy practically spat the last few words.

"What are you insinuating, my Lord?" Brandon growled, taking a step forward.

"I'm sure my cousin insinuates nothing about his future Queen, only his happiness with the match," the King declared with a raised hand. "I also approve of the match. Let Stark and Baratheon come together still, as kin, through their Tully matches. Let us knit this realm back together, shall we?"

These was a subdued murmuring. _Let us see how this will hold, my King._

Elbert Arryn coughed, raising his hand to draw attention. "As we speak on the subject of kin, my uncle asked for me to bring up the subject of Mya Stone, Robert's natural daughter. Lord Jon is willing to oversee her upbringing if it is desired, but he thought that, in light on the circumstances, you and your wife may be interested in raising her at Storm's End, Lord Steffon."

Steffon thought for a moment. "My wife would be brought some comfort, to know her granddaughter, I think."

"And as a show of good faith in your and your family, cousin," Rhaegar spoke up, "I would be willing to ennoble the girl."

"And raise some baseborn mule herder's daughter above me?" Stannis blurted. Steffon cringed at his son yet again. _I think he would almost rather have the bastard girl as his heir than this second son of his._

"No, not legitimized to a Baratheon, but given a different surname, a tower somewhere, and a dowry for a future marriage, all supplied by the crown," Rhaegar assured.

"Yes, we shall do that. I will discuss a new surname for her with my wife, and draw up a list of possible holdings," Steffon nodded solemnly.

"And if you ever desire to foster the child, she will be welcome with my girls at the Water Gardens," Oberyn said, raising his glass towards Lord Steffon.

"As we are on the subject of fostering," King Rhaegar spoke up again. "Lord Steffon, I would also take Renly on as my page."

Any good will that seemed to have been building with the discussion of little Mya evaporated. _Timing is key, my King, and something you still need to learn,_ Joanna scolded internally.

"You would take him as a hostage, to assure I do nothing to avenge his brother."

"I would take him in as a respected member of my court, eventually to be my squire, or Lord Connington's squire. I would have him befriend Viserys, heal the rifts between cousins."

"If you so wish, your grace," Steffon conceded. "But, he will stay in the apartments of the Master of Laws, with me, and attends all small council meetings."

"If you so wish," Rhaegar conceded, shifting his sleeping daughter. He turned in his seat, bringing his leg off of the chair, and forcing himself to stand. The Lords around the table stood in turn. "I think we have all talked enough for the night. I would see everyone at first light, in the sept, to witness and swear the new betrothals, enobleings, fosterings, and payments discussed tonight. If needed, I can find a maester to help draw up official documents to sign. Until then, you are dismissed, and I wish you all a good night's rest."

Joanna watched as the Lords bowed in turn, and filed back down the stairs. Finally it was only herself, Rhaegar, Viserys, Myrcella, and Ser Gerold. She took the sleeping Princess from the King's arms, and he slumped back into his seat.

"Ser Gerold, please take Viserys to his rooms, and send a maester to look at my leg again, please," Rhaegar commanded.

"Are you okay, brother?" Viserys' voice was full of concern.

"I don't think I should leave you alone, my King," Gerold insisted.

"Ser Danwell is at the foot of the stairs, Ser Gerold. Your King is not without protection." Joanna assured the knight.

"I will be fine," Rhaegar said, reaching a hand out to pat his little brother's shoulder. The knight nodded solemnly, and guided the young Prince to the stairs. When they were alone, Rhaegar turned to look at Joanna. "That… went well, considering. Don't you think?"

"The Lords Paramount are used to the insanity that was your father, your Grace," Joanna said bluntly. "Compared to him, this was nothing. You should have left off after talking about Mya, though. Left Renly coming to court for another time."

"I appreciate your bluntness, my Lady."

"If I may continue to be blunt, I would say to pay attention to Jon Arryn."

"You think I need to worry about him more than Steffon?"

"Steffon is grieved, probably more grieved that now Storm's End will pass to Stannis than anything else. He barely knew Robert from his fostering, but Robert was at least likable… and Steffon isn't foolish. He came tonight. He milked everything he could out of the situation, and he may be back for more... Jon, though, he didn't even come tonight."

"Elbert said he was feeling ill."

"Ill with grief. Jon Arryn knew Robert better than Lord Steffon, saw Robert as a son. He doesn't have his own, poor man, only that sickly nephew and the reaching distant cousin. Not even a wife to comfort his grief," Joanna gave a pitying sign. "He sits alone in his high castle, no family to care for, nothing to tie him to the rest of the realm. It's a shame, really. I hope he doesn't act against the crown over this… I guess we'll see if he makes it to the swearing at first light… but I should really bring Myrcella to bed, your Grace."

"Of course. Good night, my Lady," Rhaegar said, eyes drifting back down to the table. Joanna could see that the King was sinking into thought. She smiled as she walked down the stairs. _A seed has been planted, let's see if it blossoms into what I desire._


	6. Grief

The godswood of Harrenhal was nearly seven times the size of the godswood at Winterfell. Lyanna knew every inch of the Winterfell godswood, with it's ironwood and sentinels and hot springs. The godswood of Harrenhal was foreboding, especially this late in the night, and with only a crescent moon to light their way. The grasping needles of dark, fat pines pulled at her and Howland Reed and Benjen's clothes as they followed the oozing sore of a creek that tore through the center of the wood.

"We're sure it's this way?"

"Yes," Howland whispered back. "I came this way to see it a few days ago."

The three of them had left the wedding feast early, with the aim of finding her Ned. They had checked with what Kingsguard knights they could find, searched the grounds, even the sept where they bodies from the afternoon had been moved to, and nothing.

Lyanna felt guilty for not searching for him sooner. The look on his face after the skirmish had been so full of pain and grief, the yard so full of chaos, she hadn't known what to do. She had frozen there on the stands, until another brother's hand had guided her away.

Brandon had walked her to her tent after and he had been exactly what she needed, a familiar kindness, holding her tight while she sobbed. He didn't ask how she had caught the eye of the King, even if she knew why Rhaegar had proposed. At one point, as they had been sitting on her bedroll in the dim gloom, she had whispered that she was sorry.

"You're not though," he had whispered back, patting her back in brotherly affection. She had glared at him then through her puffy, watery eyes, and pushed him away, but her eldest brother had pulled her back against his shoulder. "Lya, we're too much alike for you to lie to me. You're like a thief, sorry you've been caught, but not the least bit for your actions. You have been a thief, in a way, stealing hearts."

She bit her lip then, pulling away from him for good, wrapping herself in her furs and curling up on her bedroll. She heard him give a low chuckle, and pat her side through the blanket one last time before he got up and left.

Lyanna didn't know how much time had passed after that. She stayed there, cocooned and quiet and simply exhausted. She slept, probably, but not well, and stayed like that for a time before her father came in.

"Get up, my darling daughter," he had cooed, almost gently, as he pulled the blankets. "The King wants you by his side tonight."

"No."

His voice hardened. "You have no choice."

"Of course I do, just, just tell Rhaegar that I'm feeling ill."

Her father's hands were strong. They always had been. She had felt that strength before, when he would throw her and her brothers in the air as a child, or when he would lash them for their stupid antics. She had seen it in the way he gripped Ice or the reigns of his horse, or when he broke sticks for the campfire when they traveled. Lyanna felt it again now, as he grabbed her, hoisted her to her feet, pulled her blankets from around her.

His hand gripped her jaw, pressing the soft flesh of her cheeks against her teeth. "You foolhardy girl. You underestimate the work I have done for this family. Arranging the high matches for you and Brandon, the fostering for Eddard. You nearly threw all of that work away with both hands today."

Lord Rickard let go of her, pushing her away lightly. They stood for a moment, at odds. Lyanna didn't dare move. "This… trifling with the King," he continued. "I don't know what you did, and by the old and new gods I don't care. We're going to make the most of this, for the good of the pack." His favorite phrase, when talking about the family. "This is going to hurt our pack in the short term, but if you behave yourself…"

She hadn't moved, or said a word. She had simply watched as he pulled gowns from her trunk, inspecting the one by one, until he tossed her one; grey, long sleeved, with a modest neckline and icicle-like embroidery. She had worn it, first to watch Jon Connington cloak his new wife before the septon, then again to stand next to Rhaegar as he announced the meeting.

But now Lyanna wore comfortable riding leathers, with a cloak pulled up over her head. She had found Howland and Benjen together after the announcement was made. And they had told her of their troubles in trying to find Ned.

And so the three of them had snuck back to their tents, changed, and set out looking for him. After they had searched everywhere else, it seemed, Howland had finally talked them into trying the godswood. Howland had insisted that it made the most sense, as his own father had spoken of the act of cleansing oneself before the godwood after killing someone, but the place had made Lyanna and Benjen's skin crawl.

"Do you hear that?" The question pulled Lyanna back to the here and now. There were voices in the distance. Lyanna didn't recognize the one, but it sounded like a much older man. The second voice, though, was definitely Ned. As they got closer, she began to make out what the two were saying.

"... that I don't blame you." The elder voice was hushed, and sounded like the shuffling of boots through dry leaves. "I'm so sad he's gone, but, I'm also happy you're okay, and I could never hate you."

Lyanna and the boys snuck up quietly. They had made it to a small clearing, at the opposite edge of which was a heart tree.

This tree wasn't like the heart trees she was used to in the North, though. Her heart tree was a solemn thing, like she thought a godly tree should. The heart trees of the houses she had visited had a wide range; the Ryswell's had been a laughing, the Locke's had been quizzical, the Hornwood's had been mournful and eternally weeping red sap. Even the Bolton's had been angry, but she wouldn't call it menacing.

This tree's face was a ferocious, snarling thing. More sap seemed to drain from the mouth from the eyes, and someone had carved it to have jagged teeth. She didn't know how anyone could find comfort in such a face.

But two figured seemed to be trying to. One was an elder gentleman, in the moonlight Lyanna could make out greyish hair and a deep blue cloak, emblazoned with a white crescent and falcon. Beside him was Eddard, still wearing the white, blood splattered cloak from earlier in the day.

"I hate me," Ned answered. "I hate Lyanna, I hate Rhaegar… but I mostly hate myself."

Lyanna was flushed. Her temper flared hearing her brother saying he hated her, and her love of him made her heart ache, thinking that he hated himself. In her sixteen years she had never felt this conflicted, as she stood in the dark, biting her lip to hold back the tears welling again in her eyes.

The old Lord's hand was on Ned's shoulder. "The King was unconventional in his proposal, but-"

Ned pulled away angrily. "But why did he have to propose to her in the first place! And why did she say yes? She doesn't even know him! She's never even spoken to him! Why didn't she decline, she would have been happy with Robert-"

Lyanna turned and stormed away, no longer caring to be quiet. She could hear Benjen whispering after her, but she left him in the shadows behind her, alone. Her anger had overtaken her love in that moment, and it was all she could do not so scream, or run into the clearing and shove her brother.

She stormed back down the creek bed, sap coated branches whipping her tear dampened face. Even after this, Eddard didn't understand. _He'll never understand. But…_

Lyanna thought about the situation, for the first real time since it happened. _Why_ _ **did**_ _Rhaegar propose to her?_ Eddard had said he had never spoken to him, and in a way he was right, they had only spoken a few times. There was the walk after she had been unmasked, and then a few hours later, and then a few hours later at the feast that night...

She had danced with sweet, green eyed Howland, and they had giggled at their deceit. Then she had been asked by the sly looking Oberyn Martell, who made her heart flutter with his accented voice and playfully dark eyes. Then Robert had butted in, jealously interrogated her about her about Howland and Oberyn. After Robert she had tried to remove herself from the dance floor, but a gentle hand had stopped her. She had turned, and had been surprised to see the it was the King.

Then Rhaegar had asked her for a dance. She had accepted, confused, and he had lead her out onto the floor. "Did anyone see you?" He had asked, pulling her close.

"No one I didn't want to see me."

"Good." He paused before asking, "You enjoyed your little adventure?"

"Yes, too bad it'll be my only one." Howland's dancing had been slow and sloppy, and Oberyn's had been almost sensual. Robert had danced like a warrior, too gruff, and Rhaegar seemed just plain methodical. She tossed her hair a little, and flexed her fingers where they lay in his hand.

"There's no fun in the North?" He asked, one eyebrow raising gracefully.

"Oh there is plenty, Iove the North," she assured. "I would never leave it if it was up to me, but sadly it isn't. Brandon takes me riding in the Wolf's Wood, and on hunts-"

"A woman who rides on hunts? Interesting."

"Why yes, I shot a killing blow once even! Women are capable than more that you southerners give them credit," she wiggled her eyebrows and squeezed his hand. "Well, maybe the Dornish… I've thought about running there."

"Running?"

"Oh yes. Can't you see me walking some orange orchard in roughspun? Or maybe I'd be better in some pillow house in Lys."

The young King scoffed quietly. "It… are… was that a joke?"

The song was coming to an end, and Lyanna had let go of his hand and shoulder. She simply curtsied and smiled, and left the dance floor for the rest of the night.

What had he been thinking? " _You've entranced me,_ " he had said… But what had _**she**_ been thinking?

She hadn't wanted to leave the North for good. That was what Robert had promised her, trading her chilled forest and warm walls for some rain drenched rock where she'd only get to ride slowly, side saddle, maybe if she was lucky she'd get to go hawking between hours of needlework. With a man like Robert, she would have never gotten to exercise either her body or her mind. She would never have gotten her hands on account books, or around the grip of a sword, again.

And in that moment, she had thought all those worries were answered, but now she was realizing she was in an even deeper hole. _I don't want to be Queen…_ as Queen, all of that will be so much worse! Rhaegar was surprised that she knew all that she did, being able to hold herself in a joust, how were women treated in the capital?

 _But maybe, just maybe, there's a chance…_

And after all, she would be a Queen. Maybe, just maybe, being a Queen would allow her to be herself even more. She could teach her ladies how to ride properly, instead of having them quilt, maybe even put wooden bows in their hand instead of cloth ones in their hair. She laughed a little at the thought, a court full of fine ladies in embroidered leathers instead of gowns, trotting mud from the Kingswood into the ballroom of the palace.

She decided then and there that this way simply was for the better. She had known Robert though the stories people told about him, and through their own brief meetings. Known him for a drunk, a lecher, and her brother's best friend or not, she knew she would have only despised him more as time went on. Rhaegar, while she knew little about him, knew that he had none of the qualities she had despised about her previous betrothed, and that was good enough for her.

 _I would rather leap into the unknown with both feet than knowingly walk into unhappiness, anyday._

"Have you been speaking with your gods, my Lady?" The cool voice startled her out of her head, back into reality. Her feet had guided her back to the mouth of the godswood, while she was stuck in her own head. She whipped her head around wildly, until finally she realize where the voice came from, off to her right.

There was the King, dressed in plain dark clothes. She was surprised not to see any of his Kingsguard around him. He was still limping, but Rhaegar was at least walking unassisted. He cleared his throat, and slowly came closer.

"Not quite, my King."

"It was the sort of day to drive people to gather comfort from their gods, I suppose... Maybe not everyone. I read once that, at a Dothraki wedding, it's considered unlucky if less than three people die during the celebrations."

Lyanna laughed, despite herself, putting her head in her hands. "And what do they say about proposals?" she asked after a moment, looking up at him. He was right in front of her now.

"The book said nothing on that," he replied, brows furrowing.

Lyanna smiled up at him. Rhaegar was a hand or so taller than her, and his silvery hair was falling into his eyes. "I thought you were joking again."

"No, it is an actual custom. Death is expected at their ceremonies. "

"Fascinating,"she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice that he didn't seem to notice. _This man will be my husband…_

She wondered, despite herself, despite everything, what it would be like to kiss him. She didn't bother to look and see if anyone was watching, they were to be married anyway, what did it matter? Lyanna lifter onto her toes and leaned in, pressing her mouth to his.

Rhaegar's lips were soft, cool against her own. She felt his hands rest lightly on her hips, pulling her body against his own, gently. There was a warmth in her stomach, where their bodies touched through their clothes, and she couldn't tell if it was simply from their skin's heat or something else.

He was the one who broke off the kiss. His arms encircled her, and he rested his forehead against her own. "This will all work out. The meeting with the Lords went as well as I could hope. We'll be leaving for the capital tomorrow, and we will be wed by the new year."

Lyanna tensed. She could feel the blood rushing from her cheeks. "The new year? That's only two moons away, if that!"

"Yes, but the sooner we can move forward together, the better. The sooner the realm sees you as my Queen, the sooner the Kingdoms have an undisputed heir…"

"Is that all you see me for, your grace?" Lyanna asked, trying to sound playful, but Rhaegar stepped away, letting his arms drop away from her again. His voice was full of an icy seriousness.

"I see you as fate, Lyanna. As a promise kept, and as a promise made. You and I, we are ice and fire, Lyanna."

"How poetic," she whispered with a smile. "Will you make a song of it, Rhaegar?"

Finally, he smiled. "The song has already been written. It's being sung as we speak." He kissed her upon the forehead again, the back of his fingers tracing lightly across her cheek. "You should go sleep. Your brothers Brandon and Benjen ride to Riverrun tomorrow morning, to marry the Tully girl, with the Baratheons and Jon Connington. Stannis is marrying the younger sister, and Jon will be there to make sure they don't kill each other on their way. The rest of your family rides with us to the capital tomorrow."

She tried her best not to tear up at the thought of not seeing Winterfell again. "Yes, your grace," she said dutifully, in a voice her Lord father would have been proud of. _Maybe I even sounded Queenly_. "Before I go to bed, would you like help back to your room, my King?"

"I would appreciate it, my Lady." The walked together through Harrenhal, their arms as intertwined as their fates.


	7. Recovery

Ashara Dayne sat on a window seat, her dark hair and gown drinking in the sun's heat. Her embroidery was in her lap, but she had no desire to continue it. The delicate stitching, purple on grey, she had planned to be a gift to Eddard. She could see the beginnings of her outline, where the white wolf would have been running, chasing the purple shooting star. Ashara had thought the idea was cute when she first started, but now she could barely look at it.

So she decided not to look at it. Instead, she placed it on the windowsill, and stared out over the castle grounds. The room where she and the ladies were doing their sewing was a few floors up in Kingspyre Tower, and she could see out for quite a way.

Harrenhal was so empty and bleak, compared to the last ten days. The tourney grounds were windswept and dirty, and what new spring grass had been around had been trampled into mud by the horses and tents. Any energy or color that the tourney had brought the place was gone, and all that was left was a black husk, like the bones of some gigantic burned corpse.

She leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. The cool stone and spring breeze from the open window contrasted with the sun's heat, a sensation that made her every nerve tingle. She could hear the other ladies, sitting in a circle deeper in the room, talking.

Wynne Connington headed the circle, the new matron reveling in her acquired status. Her brown hair was gathered in a crimson net, a gift from her new husband, and she wore an equally crimson dress with flares of white lace, the colors of her new house.

The unmarried ladies of the circle seemed in awe of her. Curvy, curly haired Miriah Blackwood was at Wynne's right elbow, Wynne's yarn resting in Miriah's lap. Cerenna Lannister was to the right of Miriah, still wearing the lost expression on her face that she had worn since her sister Myrielle had joined the faith to become a Septa. They had been joined by more ladies than usual, girls who weren't court regulars but who still loved the gossip.

Allei Waynwood, with her pale blonde hair and those too-big blue eyes over a too-small nose and mouth, was there, squeezed in next to the three Hightower maids. Eighteen-year-old Leyla Hightower, somehow still unmarried, minding her talkative, thirteen-year-old sister, Alysanne, whilst the ten-year-old Lynesse was already outshining her elder sisters, in both grace and manners. Everyone was trying hard to ignore the sour-mouthed Selyse Florent, especially her cousin Delena.

Somehow, in the mess of everyone getting packed, the ladies had been left with only Wynne as a chaperone, no septa or older woman to infringe on their fun. And so, every maid in the room was hanging on Wynne's words, excited to hear how the first night had been. Ashara couldn't remember the ladies acting like this when Jeyne Farmen had married Gareth Clifton, but then again, Jeyne was no Wynne.

"Was he ravenous?" Miriah asked, eyebrows doing a suggestive dance.

"Was he all covered in that red hair?" Alysanne asked, drawing a gasp from Leyla.

"Did it hurt?" Cerenna inquired meekly.

Wynne touched her hairnet, letting her head loll to one side, before grinning at Miriah. "I don't know if 'ravenous' was quite the word for it." she was blushing, and giggling, and all the girls in the circle seemed charmed by it. Even Ashara couldn't help but smile, just a little. "His chest is thick with hair, as is his-"

Selyse made an obnoxious noise, cutting Wynne off. "On his manhood?"

"That sound itchy," Little Lynesse commented, nose scrunching.

"Not… on it… near it?" Wynne sounded unsure. "It was dark but it didn't go up his manhood, no."

"But did it hurt?" Cerenna asked again, louder this time. Wynne looked more embarrassed by this question than she had the one about the hair.

"I mean… yes, some. It felt… there was pressure and… oh!" Her face was as red as her gown. "It didn't last long, though. He did his duty, then I fell asleep with my head on his chest, and that was nice."

"Even with all the hair," Alysanne giggled.

"But, more importantly than all that, I'm sure I'm already pregnant," Wynne said confidently. "It'll be a boy, and he'll be the next Lord of Griffon's Roost. Maybe even the Hand of the King, after his father!"

"Will you be going to Griffon's Roost, Wynne?" Leyla asked, adjusting her pale blue skirts.

"Goodness, I hope not. Jon will be at court, with the King, so why shouldn't I be?"

"He didn't take you with to the Tully wedding though," Selyse pointed out, drawing a few mean glares.

"That's because of the danger," Wynne snapped back,in a voice that was both loud and whispery. Ashara rolled her eyes, but all the girls in the circle seemed hooked. "The Starks and Baratheons are more like to kill each other on the road than actually wed the Tully girls. Poor things, their father didn't even let Lysa come, and Catelyn was sent back to Riverrun before my wedding even happened."

"I feel more sorry for Catelyn," Selyse said,tossing her hair back and revealing those gigantic ears of hers. "I hear Northern men have freezing, sharp manhoods, like icicles. And that they give their wife's maidenblood to those horrid trees of theirs."

"The old gods don't thirst for maidenblood, you ninny," Miriah Blackwood snapped. "Remember who is in this room before you dishonor the old gods, Florent."

"Do witches exist for the old gods, Miriah?" Leyla asked. "I mean, you heard what the King said, about that wolf girl entrancing him."

"I mean… I've heard of the Ghost of High Heart, some call her a witch…"

"Oh, what if that Stark girl bewitched the King!" Cerenna blurted.

"Bewitched him, and Robert, I bet. Made them fight for her." Ashara couldn't tell if there was sarcasm in Delena's voice as she said it, but she hoped not.

"And her brother bewitched the King to put him on his Kingsguard," Selyse added.

"Ned was no witch," Lady Allei Arryn finally spoke up, to the room's surprise. "I spent a lot of time with him while he was my Lord uncle's ward, he's a sweet man…" the pale girl flushed an equally pale pink, and Ashara decided she had heard enough. She pushed the wolf-and-star embroidery out the window, and watched as it fluttered into the distance, before breaking into the conversation.

"Lady Connington," she spoke up as she stood from her seat at the window. "If it's all the same, I can not concentrate right now. I'm too worried about Arthur. If you would excuse me, I would go to check on my brother."

"Oh, Ashara, I am so sorry! Here we are talking about indecent things and you're worried sick. Please, send the Sword of the Morning our love, and let him know he is in our thoughts and prayers." Wynne sounded all the caring matron as she said so. Ashara let Wynna and the other Ladies hug her, before she gathered her skirts and fled the room.

Her brother would be staying at Harrenhal for a least a week. While at first, the maesters thought the wound on his head to be fairly minor, he had suffered from bad headaches and disorientation since. The King, fearing for his friend, had given him leave to rest at Harrenhal until he felt well enough for travel, and even leave to return home to Starfall for a time after.

Rhaegar was set for Kingsgard, it seemed, having found replacements for the two lost cloaks so quickly. One went to Brynden the Blackfish, as the semi-storied knight had asked the King for the honor that morning. The King had accepted, saying he was pleased to give the cloak to a knight that had fought alongside his father during the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

The other cloak, though…

 _Oh Ned, why did you do it?_

Eddard had taken the vow as well, that morning, alongside the Blackfish. She hadn't been there, but she had heard about it, and it made her ache.

Ashara had tried to find Ned after the Tournament, bit she hadn't been able to. His brother Brandon hadn't known where he had gone when she asked him at the feast, and had almost seemed surprised that she had inquired.

Eddard hadn't sought her out, either; not at her brother's bedside, or in her chambers with the courtly Ladies. He had simply vanished, it seemed, losing interest in all but the Kingsguard.

Ashara had never been the type of girl to cry or throw tantrums at heartache. It was something she prided herself on. She was much better at pushing these distresses to the back of her mind, focusing on the here and now; and the here and now was poor Arthur, unable to serve his best friend.

The maester greeted her warmly outside of the room. The middle aged man, all grey and chained, offered her a bowl of cool water with a cloth, and cup of fruit juice.

She carried both through the heavy curtain, into her brother's sickroom. She tried her best not to stumble, or make loud noises. The room was dark, with curtains blocking the light out from both the door and the windows. Light had been making his aches worse, and noise. Even speaking above a whisper had made him moan in agony.

She managed to find the chair at his bedside, though, and settled in. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead, as she brushed it away. "Ashara?" He asked in a pained whisper.

"Mmm," she affirmed wordlessly, moving her hand to the back of his head. "Drink."

She guided his head as he sat up, and he drank from the cup, slowly. He had been so nauseated since the fall, the juice had been all he could handle. He patted her hand gently when he was finished with the juice, and she exchanged the cup for the rag, wringing the excess water into the bowl.

 _He's going to waste away_ , she thought forlornly. _Unable to eat properly, or to work his sword arm. He'll be weak as a kitten._

The maester had promised her brother would be well enough to ride few days. He told her that these aches and nausea fairly common in blows to the head, such as he had suffered in the joust against Selmy.

The gods gave as they took away. He had been injured, but it had kept him safe from Robert Baratheon's drunken rage; sworn to die for his King or not, she preferred Arthur alive.

As she laid the cloth on his forehead, a pang of pain hit her again. He was sworn with a white cloak to Rhaegar, just as Eddard was now. Eddard was to be Arthur's brother in arms now, instead of his goodbrother, like he was meant to be. A brother through marriage, through blood, the father of his nieces and nephews.

"Arthur," she whispered, trying to be gentle. "Arthur, the King gave you leave to go to Starfall once you are well enough to ride."

"Mmm," he murmured in confirmation.

"I'm coming with you. I miss home." It was a practical decision, she had been telling herself, not just one made of sadness. She would be able to tend to Arthur on his journey, as they maester had shown her. Besides, home would be safer: With everything going on since the proposal, the remote Dornish castle would be removed from any trouble that may fall.

"Will... he let... you?" Arthur winced at the sound of his own voice.

"I'm not asking the King, I'm telling him. I already told him."

She hadn't directly spoken to King Rhaegar about her leaving court, but she had left letters with his and the Lady Joanna's chamberlains, stating her desire to stay and care for her brother and assist him home to Starfall for his recovery. Neither letter had been phrased as a question of leaving, just a simple statement of it.

She wasn't important enough to the King or the Lady Joanna to be missed, nor had she tried to establish herself with Lady Lyanna to try and become part of her new household. In honesty, her absence would be appreciated, to help make room for the Northernmen.

X X X

And, just as she thought, no questions were asked, no ridicule given.

Ashara watched from a window in the Kingspyer tower as nearly a hundred men rode off west and north, to Riverrun. They rode under the black-on-gold stag of Baratheon, grey-on-white wolf of Stark, the red-on-white griffon of Connington, and of course, the silver jumping trout of the Tullys themselves. She knew that Connington was going only to keep the King's Peace, and she wished him luck in that, as Robert had many young knightly friends who would be like to cause fights with the wolves.

A few hours after that, the King himself had left. She had watched this from her tower as well, his Queen-to-be riding in blue beside him, while the Queens Red and Black rode behind the pair. They were encircled themselves with most of the Kingsguard, and she knew one of those cloaks was Eddard. This party made their way south and east, beneath the red dragon banner and the dozens of other families that had taken court in the halls of the Red Keep.

She watched both groups ride from the highest windows she could find, until they shrunk smaller than ants and trickled over the horizon. No tears fell, even as she fought against a pit of grief in her throat.

The next six days were spent with Wynne and her brothers. Wallace, Orwell and Oswell had all tried their hand in wooing her, with small gifts of flowers and offering to tour the grounds with her, and she had denied them all. When she wasn't nursing Arthur, she was sleeping, or minding Wynne graciously as she could.

On the seventh morning, Arthur was sitting in his bed. By sunset, he was okay with candlelight in the room. On the eighth day, he planted his feet on the ground, and asked for the windows to be opened. He smelled rank, but none the less Ashara held him in a tight hug, thankful to see him regaining himself.

On the ninth day, he ate dinner with her and the Whent family, and on the morning of the tenth day, they climbed into their saddles, and rode south for Starfall. Ashara didn't look back over even once; her eyes were set on home.

X X X

Hey all,

I know these last two chapters have been short. My classes/work study have started back up, and I've been job hunting to replace my second job.

Honestly though, I've also been sick of writing about Harrenhal. It's been necessary, and I hope enjoyed this, but I'm ready to move around Westeros and onto the real plot.

This the last of the Harrenhal chapters, so soon we'll be seeing Riverrun, King's Landing, the North, and one other very special place. Part of chapter 8 is already done (I jumped ahead, part of the gap between 5 and 6, oops).

I'm hoping that I'll be able to keep writing as my semester goes on. One of my classes is set to have a half hour of free writing a week, I plan to utilize that time for this project. I love hearing your feedback, a few comments have already inspired me to refocus some of my later plans. And don't worry all you NedxAshara fans, there is still more to this story! ;)


	8. A Marriage of Adversaries

**Content Warning: graphic, not-so-loving bedding scene, followed by some sweetness**

"He's lean and dark haired, like you like," Catelyn Tully reassured her sister. She and Lysa were in their sunbathed rooms at Riverrun, where they had spent most of their childhood together. Now, they were a day away from becoming women, from each of them wedding an heir to a great house. They would each wear their maiden cloaks tomorrow; Catelyn herself in the one her father draped over her mother's shoulders, Lysa in the one that Catelyn was sewing now, binding strips of red and blue cloth in their own sort of marriage.

 _Lysa is a child in a women's body, but she must be ready for this_ , she thought, watching her sister comb out her auburn hair with her fingers. The seamstresses were working double time around her legs, getting the sizing just right on the ivory gown. Lysa's dimpled face was dreamy as she tried to get the knots out of her waist-long hair.

"But he's... tall..." Lysa commented from her perch upon the stool, swaying back and forth absently. This drew a duet of "hold still, milady!" from the women putting the final adjustments on the hem.

"Yes, very tall!" Catelyn gushed. "Just like my Brandon, he had a strong square jaw." Catelyn hadn't seen Stannis Baratheon up close, but he wasn't hard on the eyes.

 _I still go the better deal, though_ , she thought proudly. Stannis was a serious young man, probably who seemed completely uninterested in… well, most things. Her Brandon, though… _Oh, my Brandon, he will make the perfect husband…_ She began to blush, thinking about him.

"I.. I don't know how I feel about tall. I don't think I like it," Lysa turned away, voice wavering.

The seamstresses stood. "Milady, we are finished," the first said, while the second went for a long coppery mirror against the wall. Catelyn smiled to see the dress was an exact twin to her own: a fairly plain ivory shift, sleeveless, with a nearly immodest neckline. The plainness of the base was distracted by the lace, though, almost it's own dress that lay overtop of it. The lace was a flowery pattern, a brighter white than the ivory, with hints of silver in the stitching here and there. Lysa swayed, letting the skirt swish back and forth, and the sisters admired the effect of the sunlight on the silver.

Once the women had left, Catelyn began helping Lysa out of the dress. "What do you mean, though, not liking tall? You've dreamed of a tall handsome Lord since we were small," she pressed.

"Oh.. but Cat, what about Petyr?"

Catelyn scowled at her little sister. While she had strived to be the perfect Lady of Riverrun since her mother's death, Lysa had applied herself in the same way. "What are our words, Lysa?"

"Family, Duty, Honor." Lysa didn't miss a beat.

"Our _family_ is House Tully. We're the Paramounts of the Riverlands. Our _duty_ is to give new _families_ to honorable matches," she emphasized their house words, trying to force her sister to understand what they had already been told hundreds of times since they knew was marriage was. "Stannis Baratheon is the new heir to the Stormlands, and a cousin to the King! Petyr is well.. Just Petyr."

Any affection Catelyn had held for Petyr Baelish was gone, just as he was. Four moonturns prior, when her betrothal was announced, he had insisted on dancing with her six times at the party, then tried to kiss her! She was horrified, but mostly embarrassed for him.

"I love you, Cat. I want to do everything I can to make you happy," He had pleaded, with both his voice and his grey tinged eyes.

She had laughed aloud at that. "How could I ever be happy married to someone as low born as you?" When her uncle Blackfish had carried the drunken boy up the stairs, she had thought that would be the end of it. Then, just weeks before, Brandon and his family had visited Riverrun.

Lord Rickard Stark was touring around the Riverlands, presumably searching for matches for his younger sons and aligning trade deals for the upcoming planting season. The plan had been to meet then, for them to finish their tour, and for their families to meet again at Harrenhal for the wedding of Lord Connington to Lady Wynne. After Harrenhal, they were all going to ride as one big family back to Riverrun, where her own wedding would commence.

Brandon had been so handsome and gallant beside his father, bowing to her, kissing her hand in greeting. It was her first time meeting her husband to be, and she had been see excited to show him what a perfect Lady she was, to give him a tour of Riverrun and get to know him better...

And then Petyr spoiled everything.

Littlefinger, grey-green eyes big and mean with jealousy, had pushed his way into the greeting ceremony to throw a glove down at her Brandon's feet. "A dual, my Lord. I wish to duel you for my Lady Catelyn's hand, today. "

Both Lord Rickard and her father had gone bright red with anger. Uncle Brynden had laughed aloud, while Lysa and little Edmure seemed simply confused.

"He'll kill you, boy!" Brynden counseled after he managed to quell his laughter.

"Aye, I would," Bandon had answered. "You're what, thirteen?"

"Fifteen!" Petyr had spat back, scowling.

"Small for your age, then. I've got near a foot on you, a couple stone and five years of training. Trust me when I say, whatever you're feeling, it isn't worth your life."

"Love is worth everything, my Lord."

Catelyn hadn't thought the incident could be more embarrassing… until Brandon had nodded at Petyr with a sick mix of pity and amusement and said, "Fine. Fetch your things, we will dual in an hour. No man will call me coward."

And so they met in the godswood. Hoster had blustered about sending his friend his only son's bones and the insult that a ward of his would cause on such an important day. Lysa had cried at the idea of Petyr dying; she into such bad hysterics that their father had sent.

No one had seemed more upset than Lord Stark; something that, in hindsight, was ironic to Catelyn, considering what she had witnessed at Harrenhal.

Petyr arrived in the godswood with only a helm, breastplate and mail. The pieces were mismatched, dented, even Catelyn could tell. Brandon took off most of his own armor, muttering again about cowardice. Still, the helm her betrothed wore was much better fitting, shining where Petyr's rusted.

Petyr asked Catelyn for her favor to wear, but she refused, and gave it to Brandon instead.

"He's just a boy, my Lord. Please show him the Mother's mercy," Catelyn begged Brandon as she tied her favor to the hilt of his sword.

Brandon gave her an odd look at that. "I will give him _my_ mercy."

And so the man and the boy met. The boy hefted a round shield and a short sword, neither of which he looked comfortable with. The man hefted a two handed longsword of valyrian steel, a blade he swung with surety.

"Yield!" Brandon roared, again and again as he struck the boy down with the flat of his blade. But Petyr refused to give up. In the end, Petyr was staggering and bleeding from a dozen wounds, when Brandon ended the battle with a backhand cut so brutal Catelyn was convinced it was mortal.

But Brandon had been true, in showing him mercy. When the boy went down, he threw his own blade down and declared the dual over. Unconscious Petyr was carried to a tower to recover. For the fortnight he laid in that bed, healing from his wounds, the only visitor he got was Lysa, and the maesters.

He left a few days before she and her father rode to Harrenhal, and Catelyn never said goodbye.

"He's not 'just Petyr'!" Lysa snapped, pulling herself away. This brought Cat back to the present, and the sisters frowned at each other. "Petyr is bright and kind and brave. And what you did to him was cruel! If I were you- "

"Well you're not," Cat cut her off. "You are Lysa, soon to be of House Baratheon, and Petyr is halfway back to the Fingers. All three of us will be where we are meant to be soon enough."

X X X

Brandon Stark and Stannis Baratheon arrived at Riverrun with tremendous fanfare. The four great banners of Tully, Stark, Baratheon and Connington flew over the mass of men that arrived, drinking in the morning light.

Catelyn and her sister did not greet them, instead they sat at the window of their dressing room and watched. It was improper for grooms to see their brides before the ceremony, so the Septas and Septons said; bad luck for the wedding to come.

But nothing was said about the other way around. The sisters were still hurt over the harsh words during Lysa's gown fitting, but neither could bring themselves to be mean on their shared wedding day, so they sat, clutching each other's hands as the steward greeted their father at his own gates.

"There is Brandon," Lysa pointed to the figure in grey riding leathers, who dismounted an equally grey horse.

"And there is Stannis," Catelyn teased, pointing to a lean man, all in black, who dismounted as far away from Brandon as one could be without drawing undo attention. Between them, the girls could see their father and the fire haired Lord Connington, who were both shaking hands with the steward.

Catelyn squeezed Lysa's hand. "Four hours, and father will be walking us through the Sept. We won't be maids anymore…"

Lysa seemed to grow pale at this prospect. Catelyn was nervous, too, of course. Their father hadn't spoken much of the couplings that happened in the bedchamber of man and wife. Their mother should have been the ones to tell them, but she was long gone, and their Septas had only spoken it of a duty that must be endured to bear children.

She knew there would be blood, and pain; she imagined it would be like when her moonblood came, the same stomach ache, but less blood. There would be nakedness, and kissing, and the thought of that part of it made her cheeks flush.

"We'll be women," Lysa whispered, clutching Catelyn's hand back desperately.

Their Septas and servants entered then, and pulled them from the window. Sweet incense was lit as a tub was rolled in. Lysa and Catelyn bathed together, as they did when they were children. Carelyn felt a pang of sadness to know this would be the last time, the last fleeting moments of their girlhood…

Then they were out of the bath, being patted dry, their hair was brushed and their nails trimmed. Between the nerves in her stomach and the frantic movements of their helpers, the next few hours were a complete blur to Catelyn.

It wasn't until the gown was being dragged over her head that she realized how much time had passed. A knock on the door interrupted the affair, and Lord Hoster was asking if they were ready.

"My goodsons are in the Sept," he beamed.

"Not your goodsons yet, father," Lysa teased, escaping the clutches of her maid to run and embrace him. Hoster was dressed in deep blue silks, with hints of silver in the buttons and thread. He was dignified, despite his fading hair and haphazardly shaven face.

Hoster ran his hand lovingly over Lysa's hair, and it came to rest on her back. Catelyn noticed something sad in his blue eyes, briefly, before he called for all of the women to give him a moment alone with his girls. Once the maids and septas had left, he motioned for them to sit on their window seat.

Catelyn and Lysa exchanged a look, before taking each other's hands and sitting. Their father pulled a chair up and sat in front of them, staring them down.

"I need you girls, to understand…"

He trailed off. Catelyn and Lysa exchanged another look. Their father had always been a sure man, and now he was at a loss.

"I need you to understand," he continued after a moment, "What hinges on this ceremony. My sweets…. This should simply be a happy day for you. It was a day I've been looking forward to since you were small. Your mother and I couldn't have asked for better, you'll each be Ladies to a Lord Paramount. But…"

"But?" Catelyn asked after a moment.

"My doves, you saw what happened in Harrenhal."

Catelyn had been doing her best to forget Harrenhal, and she assumed Lysa was, too. The screams and sprays of blood that came from the men upon the field still rang in her ears when she thought of it. Her father had gotten her and Lysa away, and had sent them home with a few of his trusted bannermen.

The flight from Harrenhal had been a horrifying one, but Lord Hoster had insisted his girls get home as soon as possible. Their horses lathered as they rode home, and more than once did she and Lysa wake screaming in the night when they stopped for sleep.

It wasn't until they reached Riverrun that they were told the full details of what had happened, and what was going to happen to them in turn…

"What does that have to do with us, father?"

"The fate of our family depended on you two being suitable Ladies, and making the best possible matches. But now, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms is at hand."

Lysa looked scared. "Surely you exaggerate, father."

Hoster Tully seemed to age ten years before his daughter's eyes as he shook his head. "The King seems to believe that this marriage will heal the wounds between Stark and Baratheon. For the sake of the Seven, that is exactly what it needs to do." He stopped the girls before they could protest. "I would be a fool to think you could build some sort of friendship between Brandon and Stannis, but you will mother their children. A future Lord Stark and a future Lord Baratheon will be cousins, and you will foster that kinship. I raised you two be great Ladies, and that is what you will do."

"We would never let you down, father," Catelyn assured Hoster, half trying to assure herself.

Their father heaved a heavy sigh, placing his head into his hands for a moment. "No man, not even your father, or a King, should be putting this burden on you. You are nearly women grown and yet… in my mind you will always have skinned knees and muddy feet from your play in the godswood."

"Oh, father!" Lysa cried out.

"Promise me, my doves," Hoster whispered as he stood. "Promise me, you'll do all you can to temper any anger your husbands feel. Little Lysa, you are being thrown into the worst of it, and for that I am sorry… I did this because I wanted you to be taken care of and happy, and strong noblewomen in your own right, but what I saw on the road here… I'm not convinced happiness will follow."

Happiness will follow for me, Catelyn thought smuggly. Her Brandon was to be the perfect Lord husband, she could feel it. She also felt a pang of pity for her little sister, her raging emotions. Lysa was never strong like she was.

Another knock interrupted them. "My Lord, the ceremony…"

"We are on our way." Hoser offered Lysa his kerchief, which she used to wipe her tears.

 _Maybe Lysa should have married Baelish_ , she thought sadly. At least with Baelish, she wouldn't have to worry about politics… but this was what they were raised for, to be great Ladies. They were bred for politics.

X X X

The sept of Riverrun was a seven-sided, sandstone building nestled among gardens. The Lords and Ladies who had made it overflowed into these gardens, trying their best to mind the flowerbeds while also leaving room for the procession.

The wedding was all at once much bigger and much smaller than Catelyn had dreamed of; a number of the smaller Lords and Ladies who she recognized were there, but for every one guest missing, there seemed to be two unfamiliar Stormland or Northern faces.

Many of those faces looked angry, or annoyed, or suspicious. She didn't let herself glance at Lysa, who she was sure was crying on the other side of their father as they walked.

More than anything, Catelyn felt cheated. Her wedding to Brandon should have been a grand affair, with all of her father's bannermen cheering her and all her future bannermen wishing to dance with her and telling her how lucky her new Lord husband was.

But it wasn't. It was this rushed, ugly thing that she had to share with her sobbing little sister. The anger welled within her, and she clenched her fist, digging the nails into her palm until the anger subsided. She kept her best Lady face the entire time, though, with a small, placid smile, and her eyes forward.

Brandon and Stannis stood at the altar within the Sept, both in fresh dublets embroidered with their sigil. Next to Brandon, Catelyn recognized his youngest brother, Benjen, and beside Stannis was Lord Connington.

No Lord Steffon, Catelyn realized. Or Lord Rickard. No Eddard or Renly, not even her uncle Blackfish, who was now a Kingsguard. Fate again had stolen a crucial part of her wedding from her.

"Who brings these maids to be wed?" The Septon asked when they reached the altar.

"I, Hoster of House Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands," Catelyn's father replied. "I bring my eldest daughter, Catelyn Tully."

"And who receives her?"

"Brandon, of house Stark." Brandon replied. Cately stepped forward, smiling her brightest smile at her husband.

"I also bring my youngest daughter, Lysa Tully."

"And who receives her?"

"Stannis, of house Baratheon." Lysa joined Stannis, and all four of them knelt before the altar.

"We stand here, in the sight of gods and men, to witness the union of man and wife." The Septon rattled on, about peace and prosperity and duty and leading those congregated through the motions. Catelyn gave the needed responses to the passages and prayers, watching Brandon. He didn't speak along with the rest, which confused her, but she wasn't going to let one more thing ruin her day.

Finally, the Septon invited them to stand, and her father removed her maidencloak, and Lysa's. Brandon took the bride cloak from Benjen, a beautiful silken thing stitched with the grey Stark wolf. Stannis took the Baratheon bride cloak from Lord Connington, and Catelyn felt more pity for Lysa; the cloak looked to be little more than one of the banners Stannis had ridden in under, and was dusty from the road.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity," the Septon declared. "Look upon one another and say the words."

Catelyn had been practicing the vows since childhood. She met her husband's grey eyes, smiling.

"I promise to bring you the joy of the Maiden, and the wisdom of the Crone. I promise to be a Mother, gentle and loving, to your children, until the Stranger crosses our paths," Catelyn said, hearing her sister's echo behind her.

"I promise to bring you the strength of the Warrior, and to mend your troubles as the Smith. I promise to be a Father, just and true, to your children, until the Stranger crosses our paths," Brandon answered, emotionless, not missing a beat.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," both brides and grooms said at once. Catelyn's stomach fluttered as Brandon leaned in and placed his lips to her own.

She was now, officially, a woman.

X X X

The wedding feast was a lively affair. There were courses of delicious foods: fresh fish caught just outside the castle walls, cooked with lemon and rosemary; salads of fresh spring greens and roasted pumpkin seeds; baked apple tarts and fluffy warm breads.

During dinner, Brandon spoke with her father and Lord Connington, but they barely exchanged words. Stannis and Lysa weren't much more talkative, both sitting side by side in silence for most of the dinner.

At one point, a fight broke out far from the high table, between men wearing green turtle badges and others wearing white sunburst badges. When Lord Connington, Brandon and Stannis left to deal with it, her father simply shook his head. "Estermots and Karstarks."

Catelyn had heard of the Estermots and knew they were Stormland lords, and she assumed by the name the Karstarks were sworn to her and her new husband. She realized then that she hadn't learned much about her new bannermen. _Brandon will teach me_ , she decided, and went on eating.

After the fight died down, and a number of men were thrown out, it was time to cut the wedding pie. Catelyn, Brandon, Stannis and Lysa cut it together, releasing a flurry of chirping nightingales to the delighted those who were still in the hall.

The two pairs also shared the first dance; the musicians played 'Two Hearts the Beat as One'. As they moved around the floor, Catelyn smiled at Brandon. "Perhaps one day, there will be a love song about us," she said coyly.

"You think?" Brandon seemed amused by the notion.

"The sisters who wed two men, to bring a nation back together? Sounds like a story the bards would write."

"Mayhaps." He said simply.

After the first dance, Brandon handed her off to a series of other dancers; she spun around the floor with Stannis, who was stiff and awkward; her father Hoster, who congratulated her and wished her well again; Lord Connington, who told her how happy King Rhaegar will be to hear of the ceremony. She danced with Walton Frey, the Lords Umber and Mormont - who introduced themselves as her new bannermen- , and two very handsome Stormland knights.

Despite everything that was wrong today, she was happy, flushed with wine and flushed from dancing non stop. Before she knew it, Lord Connington made a call for the bedding. In response, the musicians started playing 'The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown'.

"But don't bring them to the wrong rooms!" someone jeered. "You'll end up with a Stag in the North and a Wolf in the south!"

There was laughter, and Catelyn locked eyes with Lysa across the dance floor. Lysa looked scared and Catelyn had to admit she was, also. The weight of what was to come finally hit her in full force, and she couldn't help but think of the scant things she had been told about being bedded.

"When a husband takes a wife," their Septa told them once, "The husband will take the wife to bed, where he inserts himself in her, and that makes a baby. It is simply something that women have to endure."

Some of their servants said otherwise; they said that this coupling could be fun, could feel good.

Catelyn hoped the servants were right.

Gruff, Northern hands lifted her off the ground, pawing at her dress and hoisting her up the stairs. She heard a tear, and cringed at the thought of the beautiful dress ripping.

One of the Frey men who were in attendance grabbed at her feet, pulling off her shoes. She could hear, somewhere behind her, Brandon laughing about the whole ordeal.

The world went grey as her skirt was thrown over her head. A hand grabbed her rump, another grabbed at her breasts, and she supposed she would never know who. _Oh please, let this end…_

And as abruptly as it began, it did end, with her nearly naked in the doorway of her bedroom. She clung as tightly as she could to a ripped slip. Brandon stumbled in after her, being pushed by a half dozen Ladies who all clung to strips of his clothes, their new keepsakes. He was still laughing, and called back after the Ladies "I thank you for your suggestions!" They tittered in response, and he closed the door.

Still clutching her slip to her breasts, she stared at her husband. He smelled of alcohol and was naked, the Ladies having gotten more of his clothes than the Lords had of hers.

He was a well built man; Thick muscles stood out in his arms, chest, and stomach. His chest was covered in a mat of grey-brown hair, a touch darker than the hair on his head. The hair faded above his belly button, but there was a thick trail of it from his navel, down to between his legs.

Catelyn blushed bright pink. She had never seen a manhood before, and she didn't think she ever wanted to again. _It is simply something that women have to endure_ , her Septa's words rang again in her head.

She realized then that Brandon was staring at her. Catelyn couldn't read his face; he seemed playful, yet annoyed all at once.

"Well?" he asked, almost sarcastically. "Let's see what my father has bought me, shall we?"

Catelyn was confused. Brandon rolled his eyes, before walking to her and pulling the slip away, tearing what was left of it completely in half. Catelyn's hands went to cover herself instinctively.

Brandon sighed. "Come now, my Lady. This is supposed to be our bedding… would you rather we not consummate?"

"What?! No! I mean... " She couldn't think straight.

"I feel both of our fathers would be disappointed if we chose to not consumate," he muttered. "And you don't have to play the modest maid for me."

"What do you mean?!"

"You? And Petyr?" he swayed slightly as he made the insinuation.

Catelyn couldn't believe what her husband was saying. "Never! Any woman who… couples… before they are wed has sinned against the Seven!"

All playfulness dropped from Brandon's face. "Yes? And what of those who don't follow your Seven?"

"It is still a sin, and any woman who does should feel-"

"Any woman?" He looked angry. "If Petyr had snuck into your room and forced himself upon you, would you be shameful, sinful?"

"Petyr would never… why are we even talking about this?" Catelyn could feel tears welling up in her eyes. _Why was her Brandon acting like this? Was it the wine and spirits he had been drinking?_

"I doubt he would have, but I'm saying if. What if it was a girl in a village, stormed by enemy soldiers? And there were too many for her to fight off, and no one left alive to save her? What then, should that girl feel shame?"

"I… don't… know…"

Brandon looked at her in disgust, and Catelyn felt her heart breaking.

"Are we to do our duty or not?" he finally asked.

The tears fell from Catelyn's eyes. _Promise me, you'll do all you can to temper any anger your husbands feel,_ her father's words rang in her head. _He's just angry, about all that's happened. Drunk and spirited and picking fights…_ "Let us lay as husband and wife." Her voice wavered as she spoke, and she turned to the bed without looking at him.

She laid on her back, staring at the ceiling above her. "Roll over," he commanded, and she did. She felt his hands, the skin calloused from riding, on her legs, and he jerked her body towards him, pushing her legs apart where they hung over the edge.

And then… nothing happened. She laid there, face hidden in her folded arms, waiting, but he wasn't touching her.

She lifted her head slowly, looking back over her shoulder. His eyes were closed, and he was touching his manhood, which she was surprised to see had grown in size. She noticed his lips moving, and watched that instead. She couldn't quite make out what he was saying, though he said it over and over again… _Baa bee? Bar bee?_

He opened his eyes, and noticed her looking. Without breaking eye contact, he raised his other hand to his mouth, and spat into it, before pressing it between her own legs. She cringed and the sliminess of it, and almost crawled away from it, but then his hand went to her hip, holding her there, and he moved between her legs.

Catelyn hid her face back in her arms. There was pressure, and a stretching sensation, and she felt like calling out as there was a stab of pain.

The hand he used to guide himself in also went to her hip, and his fingers dug in as he began moving. It felt like there was a knife being rammed into her, again and again.

"Endure," she whispered, biting back the sobs. "Endure…"

After a few minutes, her husband slammed himself into her a final time, grunting. He moved from between her legs, leaving an empty, swollen ache in his place.

"A bloody sword is a beautiful thing," she heard him say, "North or South."

She crawled herself up to the head of the bed, and found her way under the blankets. She expected Brandon to join her, but she she looked, he was dressing himself, walking towards the door.

"Where are you going?" she asked, voice shaky.

"My duty is done," he said flatly, and left without another word.

X X X

Lysa Tully - no, Baratheon now - was deposited into her room, stripped naked, alongside her new husband. She felt like she was going to vomit.

Not that her new husband made her want to vomit - he was strong of jaw, though heavy of brow, with dark blue eyes that Lysa might have called pretty if a smile ever reached them.

But she hadn't seen her new husband smile yet. She supposed she understood, the man had been rushed into a marriage that he probably hadn't wanted, after his brother had been killed.

But he had barely spoken to her all evening, and had been so stiff when they danced, even his kiss during the vows had felt forced.

 _He hates me_ , she thought, wrapping her arms tight around her, digging her nails into her arms. _And it will only get worse when he finds I am no maid…_

She could not say she regretted giving her maidenhead to Petyr, the night when Catelyn's engagement was announced. When he called out Cat's name during, it tore her apart.

That hadn't stopped her from going to him again though, when he was recovering from the duel. When he took her again, she thought it meant he had put Cat from his mind, that he loved her but…

 _But no one loves me_ , she thought sadly. They all love Cat. _She's the perfect daughter, the perfect Lady, and she'll be the perfect bride. I'm sure Stannis wishes it was Cat he had wed, not me..._

"My Lady…"

She looked to her husband then, his tall, nude form was frowning at her. She realized she was crying, and wiped at her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be," he said, but made no move toward her. Lysa had never heard a man sound so unsure of himself. "I.. know this was not your wish, my Lady. I… I am not good at this, and I am a second son.. Well.. I am an heir now, but… but… If you do not want me, I will give you space."

Lysa choked on the lump in her throat, a sob turning into a sardonic bark of laughter. "You.. my Lord.. _I_ was afraid you wouldn't want _me_."

He looked surprised by that. "My Lady-"

"You may call me Lysa, you know."

"Lysa… I was afraid, at what I would find when I arrived here, but I was not disappointed. I… do not know what to say."

She looked this man who she had sworn her life to over again. He was a head over her in height, easily, stringy, it looked almost like he kept every muscle clenched at every moment. He was no Petyr, and he wasn't the handsome knight she had dreamed of in her stories, but he was young, and shy, and she felt a certain understanding between them that was new to her.

She put her arms down, not wanting to hide her form from him. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, slowly, like she was approaching an animal. He didn't flinch from her, nor did he move to meet her.

Lysa wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her naked form to his equally naked self, and resting her head against his shoulder. His heart fluttered in his chest, and she smiled. _I could learn to like tall…_

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tighter to him. One of his hands made its way up to her head, and he stroked her hair, gently. Lysa turned her head, pressing her lips against his chest, along the collar bone, to his neck. She felt him shudder slightly, and his manhood started to stir.

Finally, she looked up at him. Their eyes met, and for the first time, she saw her husband smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and she went on her tiptoes to kiss him. The kiss began as stiffly as their wedding kiss had, but he relaxed into it, and their kisses quickly shifted from chaste to impassioned.

Lysa broke off the kiss after a few moments, breathless. "Shall we move to the bed, my Lord?"

Her husband nodded. "Yes, and please, call me Stannis."

X X X

Author's Note:

Hi! So… I'm a jerk. It's been like… 6 months since I've added to this, and I feel bad for abandoning all of you, but I hope I can be forgiven. I was working two jobs while taking some of my final classes for degree, and that plus winter depression turned into me not wanting to write for fun at all.

I started a new job in December, and am 2 months out from graduation, and started working on this fic again in late February. I have very large portions of the next few chapters already written, this chapter just took a while due to the content, and the POV.

Speaking of the content, I'm sorry if it was triggering to anyone. ASOIAF is gritty in it's descriptions though, and I wanted to stay true to that, and stay true to the reality that marriages in medieval settings were often not pleasant. I hope it wasn't too much.

I also hope you like Stannis/Lysa. It's not a pairing I've seen a lot, but I feel like it's one that makes sense.

Speaking of which, I experimented a little with multiple POVs in one chapter this time. I have another chapter (maybe set 2 chapters from now) that is almost (85%) done already. Was the multi POV thing okay? Did you like it, or would you rather they be their own short chapters?

Anyway, please give me feedback and criticism. Some of what you guys have already pointed out has changed where the story is going already, and given me some good ideas. Hopefully I'll be posting again within the next few weeks, and the chapter will be much more pleasant, I promise.


	9. Road to the Future

* _See Author's Note at end for some review response/discussion of character choices*_

Content Warning: Suicidal thoughts

The ride from Harrenhal to King's Landing took a little less than two weeks. The procession was lucky enough to not get stuck in the spring rains, only waking to a few foggy mornings. Eddard Stark slipped numbly into routine over the course of the days. He woke, donned his armour, and mounted his new white horse. The horse had belonged to Ser Lewyn Martell before his death, and Oberyn Martell had gifted it to him upon his ascension to the Kingsguard. The horse, at least, helped him match his new brothers in arms. They all rode white mounts, and wore their white capes, but Eddard and Brynden Tully stood out in way of their armor. Upon reaching the capital, the royal armorers would craft them the silver white armour of a Kingsguard, but until then, they wore what they came with.

The six knights of the Kingsguard rode in formation around the royals, who headed up the procession. At any given time, one Kingsguard would ride directly beside King Rhaegar; two more rode double, with the Princess Myrcella or Prince Viserys, as neither were old enough to ride by themselves. Had Ser Arthur been with them still, the remaining four would have ridden in a diamond pattern around King Rhaegar, Rhaella, Joanna, Lord Rickard and Lady Lyanna, but with Ser Arthur Dayne incapacitated, the remaining three moved in a triangle; one in the lead, two to either flank. Ser Gerold Hightower took the point position for the entirety of the ride.

When Eddard wasn't numb to the world, he was angry, or on the verge of tears, or both. Sometimes he would wake in the night, drenched in a cool sweat that me mistook for Robert's blood. As he woke his ears would ring with Robert's angry shouts. The worst mornings were the mornings when he woke up forgetting of what had happened; he would wake and think he was on the road back to Winterfell, and only remember where he was and what he was doing when the men who rose around him weren't his brothers by blood, but those brothers in arms wearing white. Then, he'd relive every moment of Harrenhal in his mind, and wish he had never woke.

But as much as couldn't bear what was happening to him, he couldn't bring himself to fall on his sword, either. He couldn't be an even bigger disappointment to his father. Lord Rickard had never been any easy man to please; a man with such big dreams and a bigger temper. He had always made Eddard's place clear to him, that as a second son, it was his duty to work for the good of the pack; the good of Winterfell and the North, to support his betters. And then his biggest regret landed him in the perfect spot to do such; "I couldn't have found a better place for you, Eddard," Lord Rickard had told him before he was to be knighted. "As a Kingsguard, you'll be trusted, in a place of respect; you can support Lyanna in all that she does." _I don't want to be trusted by someone I hate_ , Eddard had argued silently. _I don't deserve to be respected, and I don't want to support Lyanna..._ All he wanted was for Robert to be alive, and for Ashara to be his wife. "Duty to the pack comes before happiness," Lord Rickard had said to Brandon, more than once. More than once his father had stressed to him and his siblings the necessity of lifting the North to places of importance. _A Queen and a Knight of the Kingsguard, how more important could a daughter and a second son be…_ Even Jon Arryn had seemed to think it was a good idea.

"I need you to know that I don't blame you." Jon Arryn had whispered while they sat below the heart tree of Harrenhal. "I'm so sad he's gone, but, I'm also happy you're okay, and I could never hate you." When Eddard had responded that he hated himself, Jon had tried to talk him down. "You were doing the right thing, Eddard! You were trying to stop Robert from getting hurt, from starting a war-" "And then I hurt him. I _killed_ him!" "In defense. Had you not stopped him, he might have struck you down in his rage, and been killed by another. Or killed the King before he was stopped. It pains me that it came to that but I have lived long enough to know the past cannot be changed, only the future." "I have no future…" "The Kingsguard is a future. Until you are laid in the grave, there is a future, and even then, the world continues without you." _To refuse would be too selfish, especially to refuse for something I don't deserve. For something - someone - who wouldn't even want me anymore..._ So he tried his best to make himself numb, and hoped that he could stay out of the world as much as possible. The only annoyance was that he kept being pulled back into said world, as King Rhaegar requested him to ride with him for the majority of the trip to King's Landing.

X X X

The first day out was the most uncomfortable. Rhaegar called him close, and he obeyed.

"So Eddard," the King asked, somehow still sounding formal despite the obvious attempt to be casual, "Tell me about your sister."

"I am not the right person to ask, my King," he replied, trying to keep all emotion from his voice.

"Oh? Why is that?"

 _Because I blame her for Robert's death as much as I blame you… and myself…_ "Because I spent much of my childhood away from Winterfell, my King. When I left to foster in the Eyrie, Lyanna was only four, five at most. I only started visiting Winterfell again two years ago." _And now, I'll be lucky if I ever see it again..._

"Truely? It must have been hard for you, to be so far from your family."

"The Eyrie became another family; Lord Arryn another father, Rob… his other wards were like siblings, or cousins." Eddard felt a stab of guilt and grief. The King must have noticed the contorted look on his face, so he changed the subject.

"Jon Arryn seems like a wise man, though I have not spoken with him much. He is childless, yes?"

"Yes, his first wife died giving him a daughter, who in turn died moments after birth. That was long before I was born, though."

"And his second wife?"

"Lady Rowena… She was a cousin of his, I think. A kind woman, but never very healthy. She would spend her days knitting, I have a dozen socks and scarves from her still, but she passed on near the start of this past winter."

"That is sad. You were raised beside his heirs?"

"Elbert is a few years my elder, his stomach gives him many issues. Denys… Denys is Rowena's nephew, through her younger brother. He is… entitled, though not cruel." Eddard had no idea why he was being asked all these questions. He tried his best to be short and true with his answers. Does the King think to befriend me?

"Has he spoken of marriage again?"

"I'm sure he wouldn't be opposed to it."

"Was… was Lord Arryn as close to the Lord Robert? As close as he was to you?"

Eddard's hands tightened on the reigns in anger. "Closer, in fact. May I take a moment, Your Grace? I have to ask my father something."

Eddard pulled his reigns up before the King could give him a response.

X X X

After the talk about Lord Arryn, the King did not try to engage Eddard in conversation again, though he did ask him to ride beside him more often than not. Because of this, Eddard was like a fly on the wall to a number of the King's conversations.

The third day of their trip, Eddard's father rode next to the King, and the two discussed the wedding plans at length. They date they settled upon was the first day of the new year, which would be well over a moon's turn after they arrived in King's Landing.

"The wedding will happen in the Sept of Baelor, of course," King Rhaegar said. "With a public procession from the Sept to the Red Keep after. I would have the smallfolk know my Queen."

"The Sept of Baelor is beautiful, my King," Lord Rickard said, "but I know my Lyanna, and she will want to kneel before a weirwood."

"There is no weirwood in the Godswood of the Red Keep," Rhaegar admitted. "I'm not sure where the closest weirwood heart tree is, to speak honestly."

"I will inquire, see what can be done. My daughter and any of the Northern Ladies will join her will sorely miss being able to pray where their gods can hear them," Lord Rickard sighed. "One more thing to think about with forming her household."

"I hope you will have time for other things besides household building, my Lord."

"Your Grace?"

"I intend to appoint you to my small council, Lord Stark, as Advisor to the King and Lord Steward of Summerhall," The King stated as casually as he would have stated that the sun was out.

"Lord Steward?" Rickard tried his best not to look abashed. "Summerhall is a ruin-"

"Yes, it is, but I do not wish it to be so. Think of Lord Steward as a regency title. It will be your job to restore the castle, and the surrounding lands, with a stipend I will provide. I have a feeling I will not be able to focus on the restorations myself, but, seeing as it is likely a future grandson of yours will hold Summerhall, I trust the lands in your hands."

"You honor me greatly, my King."

"And of course you are free to retain your current titles, though, due to proximity, I am tempted to preemptively pass the title of Warden of the North to your heir."

Eddard stifled a sardonic laugh at that notion, and watched his father attempt to control himself.

"While that is an… understandable… thought, your Grace, Brandon is still green as grass at all of this. To be honest, I barely trust him to act as Lord of Winterfell while I am away."

Rhaegar stayed formal, but seemed a touch amused by this. "Your son is a man of twenty, is he not?"

"Yes, but he is… spirited. His heart oft comes before his head, and then those around him are forced to dig themselves out of uncomfortable situations."

"I will bow to your wisdom, goodfather, but I am sure Brandon will be a fast learner."

X X X

Five days into the trip, he called Lady Joanna to his side for a time.

"I don't believe I was able to congratulate you on the birth of your grandchild, my Lady," the King began, formal as ever.

"Yes, a healthy daughter, by all accounts. Elia had a rough go of it, and it mostly bedridden. The maester says she will live, though."

"That is good to hear."

"She will be sad to miss the wedding though, and with her babe too young to make the trip, I am unsure if Jaime will want to leave the Rock, either."

"That is completely understandable. I will make sure to send a rider with a nameday gift for my niece once we return home."

"Elia will be so pleased."

After a moment, the topic shifted. "Your husband will be making his way to the capital for the wedding, yes?"

"He will, your Grace."

"Excellent. I was hoping to ask him to stay in King's Landing, rejoin the small council."

Eddard was impressed Joanna's ability to keep her face blank. "Oh? Is someone leaving the council, my King?"

"Not leaving, persay. I am asking Lord Celtigar for help with the management and upkeep of Dragonstone. It has been run on a skeletal budget since I ascended, with a steward acting out my orders through letters. It would benefit more from direct control, and Ardrain has always been good with land and household management. It made him a good Master of Coin, but Lord Tywin will do just as well, I'm sure."

"My Tywin would be delighted to hear you say that. He will miss home, he will be grateful to have more time with me and the Princess."

For the next few days, Joanna looked smug and happy as the procession continued. The Smugness ended after the seventh day, when Queen Rhaella rode beside the King.

X X X

At first, the King and his mother rode in silence. Eddard had noticed Rhaella's dour mood on their ride thus far, and her unwillingness to speak to most of her companions.

After an hour or so of riding, the King finally broke the silence.

"Still not speaking to me?"

Rhaella didn't respond.

After a moment, Rhaegar asked, "and if I ordered you to speak to me, as a subject of the crown?"

Rhaella huffed. "Yes, your Grace. I am a loyal subject."

"Are you truly this angry with me, mother?"

That seemed to unleash the dragon. "Ashara Dayne," the Dowager Queen almost hissed the name. "She was right there She can trace her line back to Daella Targaryen, and the Princess Daenerys who became a Martell, not to mention she was well known at court-"

"A court that she hated being part of, you know as well as I."

Rhaella scoffed. "Like she would be the first, or last. She would have been loyal, sensible, she wasn't spoken for. Besides, everyone knows how… close… you are with the Sword of the Morning. To call him goodbrother, would have brought joy to your heart."

Eddard's grip tightened on his reigns at the thought of anyone but him touching Ashara, or calling her 'wife'. He still felt sick, thinking about giving her up… but she wouldn't want him, anyway, not after what he had done. _She deserves a prince, or a great Lord. Not a second son who murdered his dearest friend. I don't want to be here, but this is the life I deserve… a life I hate..._ he wiped at his eyes.

"I feel the Lady Lyanna will bring me plenty of joy, mother."

"A number of girls could have! Petra Plumm can trace her line back to Elena Targ-"

"She's also eight, nine years old at most?" Rhaegar countered. "Better match for Viserys at this point."

"She could have entered my household until the time of her flowering, I could have groomed her to be a perfect wife for you. She and Myrcella could have been playmates-"

"My daughter needs a mother, not a playmate, and the Kingdoms needs a Queen who can deliver an heir sooner rather than later."

"You say you need a mother and a Queen, and you chose a wolf who was bound for your cousin's kennel."

"Lady Lyanna gives us a firm hold on the North, the Kingdom that has held the rest of the nation at arm's length since Cregan Stark resigned as Hand of the King."

"Lysa Tully would have given you a firmer told on the Riverlands, who were scorned by your grandfather," Rhaella countered. "Allei Waynwood would have given your children a chance to inherit the Vale. Jon Arryn may have even given the children priority in his will."

King Rhaegar looked extremely uncomfortable at his mother mentioning Jon Arryn.

"I will not bicker about this with you any more, mother," He said calmly. "The choice was mine, and I have made it, and will deal with the outcomes."

"Then why even ask me my opinions?"

"I didn't!" This was the first time Eddard had heard the King sound angry. It wasn't the howling anger, boiling anger that Robert and Brandon had, nor was it the harsh, imposing anger of Lord Rickard. It was a quiet anger, a more exasperated anger. "I asked you to just speak to me! It didn't have to be about her…" The King signed, shifting in his saddle, and taking a deep breath.

"I wanted you to ride by me today so I could discuss Viserys with you."

"What are you doing with him?" Rhaella sounded fearful.

"Why do you ask that like I would ever harm my little brother, mother? What have I ever done.. Oh forget it. Viserys is going to be made the Lord of Dragonstone upon our return to the capital. That's what I wanted to tell you."

"It's about time!" Rhaella didn't seem at all placated by the news. "He should have been made Prince of Dragonstone the moment you were crowned."

"Not Prince of Dragonstone. Lord." King Rhaegar corrected. "Lord Celtigar will be made Lord Steward and assist in Dragonstone's maintenance, and help teach Viserys to rule. Viserys will start spending a few moonturns of the year on Dragonstone with Ardrain, but he will still spend the majority of the year in King's Landing, serving as a page and later a squier beside Renly Baratheon."

"Why not Prince of Dragonstone?"

"Because the Prince of Dragonstone will likely be born from my new wife within the next five years," Rhaegar said flatly. "Viserys, once he is old enough, can hold the lands until my future son is able to."

"And then what?"

"Then he'll have his own lands, and a wife, I'm sure," the King signed again. "I will see to his wellbeing, mother, and to your own. Even to my daughter's, believe it or not. Family is dear to me."

"It is dear to us all," Rhaella conceded. "Would that I had given you more siblings, a sister to wed, either to you or to a great Lord."

King Rhaegar looked uncomfortable again at that sentiment, and the pair fell back into silence.

X X X

Every even numbered day, Lyanna rode by Rhaegar's side. At first, Rhaegar seemed to not quiet know how to talk to his Lady Love. Good, Eddard thought. May he soon grow bored with her. May her grow to hate him.

As the days went on though Lyanna grew more bold in starting their talks. She started benignly enough, with questions about the impending wedding and whose lands they were riding through.

Then, she shifted to telling stories. Northern tales, about Brandon the Builder, Bael the Bard and his kidnapping of a Stark daughter centuries ago, how House Mormont won their island in a wrestling match. Rhaegar seemed to have a passing familiarity with some, but was fascinated by the detail that the Northern versions still held, and their subtle differences.

Slowly, the tales got personal; tales about her wild rides though the woods with Brandon and the Ryswells, trying to climb the side of the broken tower in Winterfell… sometimes she would try and engage him into the conversation.

"This one time, Eddard, you must remember," she had gushed, stifling the laughter from the memory, "I swear it was your idea, it was a few weeks before Ned went off to the Eyrie, Eddard and Brandon and I snuck into the family crypts, because we knew our Father would be touring it with Lord Karstark. Brandon stole a bag of flour from the kitchens-"

"Why?" the King asked, bemused.

"So we could act like ghosts! We all doused each other in it, and tried to make ghost sounds as father and Lord Karstark walked through the crypts!" She laughed aloud, and even Eddard had a hard time suppressing a smile."

"It was fun and all, until father got a hold of us after," He found himself saying. Both Rhaegar and Lyanna had been equally surprised to hear him talk. "We had welts for weeks, if I remember right."

The King's brows seemed to jump at that detail. "Welts?"

"Yes," Lyanna said guilty. "I think I tried to forget that part."

After that, Lyanna didn't try and get Eddard in on their conversations.

X X X

Author's Note:

Hello all! I'm very happy for the feedback that I got after the last chapter, and I wanted to address some of what was asked/discussed in the reviews, specifically a comment/question from Alexia Alastair.

That being said: I won't really be addressing some speculative questions about specific plot points in my author's notes, as I don't want to spoil future chapters for other readers, but I am always up for discussing character motivation for past actions, especially since many of my main characters aren't in the books.

Alexia Alastair commented in her review: "I was not so sure about Brandon in this chapter, he was quite harsh and I think he was called gallant by most people. But then again, Cat had offended Barbrey and that was why he was so angry, did I get this right?"

The offence against Barbrey is one layer in a multilayered issue around Brandon's feeling towards this match.

First off, Brandon is called gallant mostly by the Southerners who met him only a few times; Catelyn, who never got past the betrothal with him, and her father, who called him a gallant fool when he rode to King's Landing to try and get Lyanna back. From the people who knew him best (His father and brother, and the Dustins and the Ryswells who he fostered alongside), described his personality a little differently: Strong willed, hot blooded, not shy about speaking his mind/taking what he wanted.

Speaking of the Dusins and Ryswells, they are very traditionalist Northern houses, at least in my eyes. Before Rickard Stark, the North was focused on being very self reliant, one could almost say isolationist, and more focused on the Old Gods. As expressed by Barbrey in the books, there was some resentment in Northern houses to the break in tradition/keeping the North for the First Men for the sake of Rickard's "Southron Ambitions". A resentment the young Brandon was sure to be attuned to, as he was close with some of these snubbed Lords.

The rare times the Stark heirs/Lords took consorts from non-Northern houses, they took brides from Southron houses that still boast First Men blood/worship the Old Gods, like the Blackwoods and the Royces.

Resentment that plays into Brandon's own resentment of his being a pawn in his father's ambitions: He doesn't want a Southron bride, he wants Barbrey, a woman who he respects, shares interests with, and has history with. And in any other case, Barbrey Ryswell would have made a suitable match for a Stark (there's even a precedent for it, Lord Jonel One-Eye married Robyn Ryswell).

And because of this resentment, he's going out of his way to not like Catelyn. Not only did Catelyn inadvertently insult Barbrey, but Brandon would have picked a fight over any topic, because he's hot headed and mad that he's there.

But, Brandon knows he must listen to his father. Lord Rickard is, afterall, the head of the household, and Rickard's

Think of Brandon, when it comes to this situation, as the bannermen when the banners are called. They might not fully agree with their Lord's reasoning, but it might not be worth the consequences of NOT going to war, and they are going to do their best to sound their dislike of it, possibly delay mustering their men/marching, try every excuse to bring their men home to pull in a harvest or whatever.

As I said, with characters like Brandon, or Lyanna, or Joanna, since we don't see in their head at all in cannon, I'm using my best interpretation based on context clues. I could be putting too much weight into Barbrey's words on the matter, but this is my interpretation.

Lastly, speaking of all of this why to character actions, a lot of reviews (understandably) were whys relating to Eddard and the Kingsguard. I hope this POV from Eddard helped with those questions. Our Quiet Wolf is a bit broken, lets see how - or if - he'll be put back together.


	10. Letters

Spring brought rain to Pyke; torrents of rain that came in sideways, the wind howling as it whipped around the towers. Six year old Asha Greyjoy had been terrified, at first. She had only known winter during her short life on the Iron Isles; in that time, she had grown accustomed to the grey, bleak silence, the flurries of snow and the ice flows that drifted past her family's castle.

"The Storm God's wrath, it always seems to be strongest in the spring and autumn," Her grandfather, Lord Quellon, told her one night. "He and the Drowned God are in an eternal struggle, but don't you worry. We are the Ironborn, children of the Drowned God, and the storm will never get us in the castle."

After that, Asha hadn't been as afraid anymore.

She had even found some joys in the rain and snow melt. One such joy, which she and her brother Theon were taking advantage of now that they sun was out again: puddles. The grounds between the buildings were filled with pits and ruts that filled with murky waters. Splashing had entranced the pair for a while, but Asha had found a more ingenious way of filling their time, with boat racing.

Using scraps of wood and parchment, she had fashioned a pair of crude little sail boats for herself and Theon. The pair laid side by side in the mud, cheeks puffed, blowing into the paper sails.

Before either of the boats could make it past the pebble Asha had placed as a finish line, Rodrik and Maron came charging through the courtyard… and through their puddle. Rodrik's foot threw water up into Asha and Theon's faces, and Theon's boat was crushed beneath Maron's boot.

"Hey!" Asha shrieked after them, spitting mud. Theon started crying beside her. "What are you doing?!"

"Not now, Asha!" Rodrik called back.

"Father wanted to speak with us," Maron called back over his shoulder.

In an instant, Asha forgot the boats, and took off after the boys. She heard Theon stark to call after them, "wait, me too! Wait, me too!" but Asha had no time to wait for him and his four year old legs.

Rodrik and Maron had five and three years on her, respectively, and near a foot of leg length, but Asha was quick, and had an idea of where they were going.

She chased her brothers through the Great Keep, over the first stone bridge to the Bloody Keep, then another that emptied out to the Household Keep where Asha and her brothers slept. Finally, the three sprinted over the narrow, swinging wooden bridge to the Sea Tower, where the Lord Reaper's solar was.

Her brothers slammed the door in her face, and and Asha slammed her small fists against the door. "Let me in!"

Balon Greyjoy opened the door a few moments later.

Asha hesitated for a moment. Her father had intimidated her more than anyone else in her family, but she decided it wasn't worth missing out on whatever her brothers were doing. She puffed up her chest, and put a stern look on her face. "I want to join the meeting, too!"

She heard a laugh from deeper within the room. She recognized it as her uncle Aeron's.

"Little girls joining reaver meetings, eh?"

"Go play, Asha," she heard her uncle Victarion's voice come from within the room.

"Men only!" Maron's voice came after it.

"Reavers only!" Asha spat back at her older brother, stamping her feet. "And I want to be a reaver someday. I want to have my own boat someday!"

Her father watched her for a moment, then gave a small laugh. "You can come in, but you have to be silent, and you're going to be bored."

"Yes!" she cheered, pushing past her father.

All of the Sunderley-Greyjoys were in the Solar: her Uncles Aeron and Urrigon sat on one side of a large, stonecut table, with her Uncles Euron and Victarion to their opposite. Lord grandfather Quellon sat at the head, and once the door was closed again, her father sat opposite of him. There was no sign of her little Uncle Robin, the Piper-Greyjoy who was of age with her.

"As I was saying, before our… interruption," Lord grandfather Quellon began, giving Asha a pointed look as Asha joined her elder brothers against the wall. "A letter came from Harrenhal, the contents of which, could greatly affect the greenlands in the coming months."

Quellon slid a paper across the table, with Asha's father picked up first. He skimmed it, then passed it off to Euron.

"The Dragon is wedding a Wolf," her father said flatly. Asha's brow furrowed. _The dragons are dead? And anyway, how could a dragon marry a wolf? What sort of priest would wed them?_

"And a Stag was killed in the process," Euron added as he passed the letter to Victarion.

"The Stags and the Dragons are kin," Victarion observed. "And Kinslaying is a crime most unholy."

"It wasn't the Dragon who killed him, the Wolf's brother did," Quellon corrected.

"Cowardly, to get someone to kill for you," Euron observed.

"Either way, the mainland could soon be upheaval over this," Asha's father broke in. "Stormlanders are proud, and violent, and their dead heir had friends in the Vale as well. And now it sounds as if the new Baratheon heir is to marry a Tully, and the Riverlands have never been cohesive."

"Chaos," Euron broke in again, voice as smooth as the sea on a calm day, "is where the Kraken thrives."

"We will thrive," Lord Quellon insisted, "but not in the way you are thinking, my son. The Kraken will sale and reeve, and we will do it for the winning side."

"The Kraken is no slave," Euron spat back.

"The Kraken fights nought for others, but for itself," Asha's father agreed.

"THE KRAKEN IS NO FOOL!"

Quellon's hands hit the table as he shouted, and it took all Asha had to not hide behind one of her brothers at the outburst. Grandfather Quellon never rose his voice.

Her grandfather rose from the table, circling it slowly, eyeing Asha's father and uncles. "The Kraken," he repeated himself slowly, "Is. No. Fool. The Kraken does not fight losing battles. It picks and chooses its prey carefully. Now, let us choose ours."

He sat back down, and the room stayed tense, even as her grandfather started asking boring questions. Questions about longships should have been exciting, Asha thought, but focusing on numbers of men and room for food supplies took all the adventure out of it. It got even more boring when they started asking questions about musters of men on the greenlands.

 _Who cares?_ She thought as she slumped against the wall, eyes growing heavy. _Everyone knows one Ironborn is worth twenty greenlanders at sea..._

When Asha awoke, she was in her father's arms, and he was carrying her out of the Sea Tower. The sun had moved drastically in the sky, and she could hear her uncles Aeron and Urrigon taunting each other about who was going to drink more when they got to the tavern.

Her father continued carrying he stepped onto the swaying wooden bridge, closely followed by her uncles Euron and Victarion. She didn't want to be put down and forced to walk back to her rooms, so she pretended to still be asleep.

"He makes it sound as if he will not have us join the fight until it's fully decided," Victarion whispered, his voice almost completely stolen by the wind.

The trio halted in the middle of the bridge, and her father shifted how he was carrying her. "He would have us only join the last battle, I'm sure of it." She could hear her father's voice rumble in his chest as he spoke.

Euron gave a bark of laughter. "And he calls us fools."

"Well what would we do?" Victarion asked. "He'd skin us and use us as sails on his ship if we disobeyed."

"The man has no right to call himself Lord Reaver," Euron hissed.

"Except the right bestowed by the crown," Victarion countered.

"The Kraken does not pay the gold price, nor does he accept gifts," her father said definitively. "He pays the iron price, and takes what he will."

"We are the Ironborn, and once we were conquerors. Our writ ran everywhere the sound of the waves was heard," her uncle Euron declared.

"And we will be again," Balon Greyjoy assured his brothers. "We will again."

X X X

The parchment was cheap and unassuming, as was the tongueless child messenger who carried it to his window. He gave the child a scrap of bread and a silver before closing the shutters.

He found a wide chair with velvet cushions, and pulled it near the fire, next to a table with an inkpot and paper.

The letters they traded were always in cipher. When he sent letters, they were in a mix of Pentoshi and Bravosi; when his friend sent letters in return, they were in a mix of Westerosi Common and Myrish. This mixing of languages, along with the cipher, made it so no one would know their true words but themselves.

It took him nearly an hour to decipher the letter, despite it's length and his practice. When he finished, he read it twice, before burning it.

 _Old Friend,_

 _I congratulate you and your wife on the birth of your first child. May the Lord of Light bless and keep him, and may your sweet Saera soon give him a brother or sister to grow and play with._

 _You may be as yet unaware, but the young Dragon in keen on taking a new wife; he seems to think this Stark will be the Ice to his Fire, but in many ways, she will be the Fire to his Ice._

 _This girl's heritage will bring her no love, nor will the fallout of the King's ill timed proposal. Money could be made on both sides of this; There are certain peoples on your side of the sea who remember the Ninepenny Kings, and if backed properly, could get their revenge._

 _In spite of these poor choices, I feel this young Dragon is still our best hope. Had he not come to the throne when he did… but it is no use to speculate on the past, only on the future._

 _Come on the next ship you can. I will find you a way in; those gifts can be given, and I feel a certain lonely widow may take solas in your Saera, if you bring her. You would find favor at court, and in time, your son will find favor, as well._

 _Your Friend_

He couldn't help but smile at the letter, as vague and confusing as it was. Over the decades, he had learned to read between the lines, though.

After burning the original letter and it's translation, he went to writing his own letters. The quill had barely scrawled across the ink though before a cry broke the still of the night.

He followed the sound down the hall, to the nursery, where the babe laid wrapped in yellow silks. He smiled at his first born son, lifting him gently from the cradle, supporting the weak neck and skull as the nurse had shown him.

At his touch, the cries quieted. He lifted the babe up, moving him against his chest. The nurse entered as he began to bounce slightly from foot to foot, but he waved her away. He was starting to recognize his son's cries, and he knew this one did not call for a changing or feeding, only soothing.

He carried the babe back to his study and sat back before the fire. In his good hand, he held his quill and continued with his letters; in his off hand, he kept the babe against his chest. Saera was still exhausted from the birth, and he would be up for a few more hours with these letters anyway.

As he wrote, he started to hum the Volantine lullaby his wife had hummed her entire pregnancy. He didn't remember all the words, but knew it told a sweet, sad story about a mother trading her baby away to fairy creatures.

"Why do you sing that thing?" He had asked her more than once. "It's dreadful!"

"All of the babes in the pillow house were sung it," she said simply, the bastard Valerion of Pentos coming from her throat in a slurred, soothing accent.

After months of hearing the lullaby, he couldn't help himself but to hum it. He did have to admit, it was beautiful.

X X X

Benjen Stark couldn't sleep.

He had been all nerves since leaving Harrenhal. All of the drama and anger that came at Harrenhal was a part of it, of course, but as they rode, the reality of it all seemed to dissipate.

What didn't dissipate in his fourteen year old mind, though, was the parting words of his father.

"I will get your sister established in the capital," Rickard Stark had sworn, hand on Benjen's shoulder, "and I will find you a worthy wife, to marry in a year's time. Once summer if fully upon us again, you will be Lord of the Gift, as part of my resettlement plan."

Lord of the Gift. The thought made his stomach roil.

Now that their party was camped at Greywater Watch, he felt bolder. He had barely spoke to Brandon in an informal setting during the excruciatingly slow procession north. No one seemed eager to speak; the men of the North always felt unsettled when South of the Neck, especially in times such as these…

But they were in their lands now, and Benjen couldn't sleep, so he went searching for Brandon.

Benjen knew his brother well enough not to look in the rooms the Reeds had leant him. Catelyn would be there, and it was late enough in the night that Brandon would have left her side already.

He instead went outside, making his way to a less noble guest lodging.

Benjen could never wrap his head around Greywater Watch. It wasn't like any other keep he had been to; no walls of stone or fortifications to be spoken of, it wasn't even on solid ground.

No, the Crannogmen instead made stealth their fortification, and agility their defenses, as ridiculous as it seemed to call a set of buildings agile. Each building of Greywater Watch - the great hall, the kitchen, the guest lodgings, so fourth - was built of thin, light wood, covered in moss as to blend in. Each building sat not on dirt, but on a specially built raft called a crannog. This raft acted as a moving island, allowing for the buildings to be sailed through the marshes. Greywater Watch moved as it was required, and rearranged itself as required.

"So one day, you could wake up, and your meeting bedroom could be the complete opposite side of the keep from where it began?" Benjen had asked Howland once.

"Well, rarely do we move them at night, but yes, it could," Howland confided in him.

He made it over a causeway, and found the building he sought out. It was hung with a familiar banner, one that had joined them just north of the Twins: A black horse's head, eyes and mane red, on bronze within a black engrailed border. No guard manned the outer door, and the one who was within seemed to have fallen asleep.

He found the door he was searching for, and knocked.

Barbrey Ryswell answered after a moment, a blanket wound tight around her frame. She looked concerned at first, but awake, and smiled when she saw Benjen.

"Love, it's only your brother!" she called as she dropped her blanket, revealing a naked frame.

Barbrey dropped onto the bed, grabbing a book, as Brandon came from a hiding place behind the curtains. Thankfully for Benjen, his brother was at least wearing trousers.

"Ben, what are you doing up?" Brandon showed no embarrassment of being found with his mistress, not that Benjen expected him to. Benjen had known of their affair for at least a year and a half, and he didn't disapprove. Barbrey had always been sweet to him.

"I can't sleep," he said simply.

"Well, you're a little old to climb in and sleep in the middle," Barbrey mused, not looking up from her book. Brandon laughed, and Benjen couldn't help but smile.

Brandon gestured for his brother to sit at the foot of the bed. "What troubles you?"

Benjen let out a long sigh. "Father's plans trouble me."

"I can understand that," Brandon sympathized, looking past Benjen to Barbrey.

"Do you know his plans for the Gift?"

"He mentioned wanting to resettle it once the weather is better."

"He wants to give it to me!" Benjen blurted.

"That sounds like wonderful news!" Barbrey chirped.

"You would make a good Lord, Ben," Brandon assured him with a smile. The smile faded when it wasn't reciprocated. "Is it more than that?"

"I don't want to be a Lord."

"Do you want to be a Maester?" Barbrey asked, finally putting her book down.

"I don't have the head for that," Benjen admitted, embarrassed. "What I really want to be is a member of the Night's Watch."

The thought had passed Benjen's mind a few times as he was growing up; more than once he and Lyanna had chased each other around the castle with sticks, playing Watchers and Others. When the Watchmen would come south to recruit, he was always the eager to sit at their feet and listening to ranging stories.

The real tipping point had been at Harrenhal. A Night's Watchmen had come to the tourney, and the night before the wedding, had given a big speech about the watch's need, about movements of the WIldlings now that the weather was warming. He could see others around the room rolling their eyes and scoffing, but he shrugged that off; Southroners always underestimated these things.

When his father told him that he would be Lord of the Gift, Benjen couldn't even wrap his mind around the thought. Every time he pictured his future, it was him all in black furs, riding through snowy pine forests with his noble brothers in arms.

"The Night's Watch is no stroll through the Wolf's Wood, or tumble on the tourney grounds," Brandon said, no note of levity in his voice. "You understand that, right?"

"Of course I do!"

"At fourteen, hearts and minds can change, little brother," Barbrey stroked Benjen's hair.

"You really want to never have a wife?"

"You don't seem to be enjoying yours very much," Benjen snapped, to which Barbrey laughed.

"You'll never have a mistress, either," she teased. "Not many women that far north, and I hear there is a vow..."

"Why don't you want to marry?" Brandon implored.

"I… I've never had those.. Well.." There was a pause, a long and awkward one, during which Benjen could feel his cheeks growing hotter and pinker.

"Do you… prefer men?" The question came nonchalantly, from Barbrey.

"What!? No! Well… well I don't know… I prefer no one."

"None at all?" Brandon seemed confused. "You look at Barbrey, and feel… nothing?"

Barbrey laughed. "There's a reason I don't mind baring it before him, love. He's one of seven men who haven't leered at me in any way; the others are my three brothers, my father, and two stable hands who would mount each other when they weren't working the horses. "

"I don't desire women, but I don't desire men, either, brother," Benjen confided. It felt odd to say it aloud. "I don't desire wealth, or a keep, or children. I want to help defend the Kingdoms, to explore lands unknown… "

The room was quiet for a moment. Brandon paced, thinking. After a few minutes, he turned to Benjen. "You are sure this is what you want?"

"Yes!"

"At fourteen, hearts and minds can change… but there are some desires that never go away." Brandon's eyes went back to Barbrey. "Desires you'll do nothing to stop at… I will never be as father has been. I will never force my family to abandon those. When we get to Winterfell, we will have a going away party for you, and I will send you North, along with anyone else who so wishes to join at your side."

Benjen lept from the bed, nearly tackling his older brother to the ground with an embrace.

"But!"

Benjen's heart sank, as he stepped away from his brother. He met his eyes.

"But... You will write father of your decision yourself. We will move fast enough that even if he sent riders to stop you, they would be unable to catch up. But if you are to make this man's decision, you will also be the man to tell him. Understand?"

Benjen nodded solemnly.

"There are no ravens in Greywater Watch. The first hold we see past Moat Cailin, though, the letter must be ready."

X X X

Cassana Baratheon rode in a cramped carriage, her eldest son's bones rattling in the plain pine box beside her. Across from her on the bench were the pair of grey shades, the nameless and voiceless Silent Sisters, who were set to bare these bones back with her.

Cassana remembered the day her Robert was born, how proud Steffan had been. Robert has been the happiest baby she had ever seen, barely crying, happy to flail and gurgle.

The gurgles turned to laughter as he grew. Her little Robert had laughed at everything. Even when he fell, he would laugh at his own clumsiness, laugh at her for kissing his scrapes and bruises.

Now her boy had fallen, and there would be no laughter. No number of kisses would fix these injuries, and there would be no smiles or scoldings for hijinks.

Only the rattle of bones.

She was nearly alone on her journey back; Steffon and her little Renly had left for the capital, while Stannis and a number of their bannermen had went north to Riverrun.

Oh, Stannis…

 _A good mother loved all her children equally,_ Cassana thought, _and a bad mother disliked her children, but I am the worst kind of mother. The kind of mother who has favorites… and least favorites._

In every way her Robert had been easy, Stannis had been difficult. For brothers born a year and a half apart, she had never seen two children so different in demeanor. Where Robert would gugle and cry, Stannis would scream, endlessly. Something Robert would laugh off, Stannis would hold as an endless grudge. Where Robert grew to be charming, Stannis was blunt and rough around the edges, making even those who tried to be friendly uncomfortable.

Sometimes Cassana blamed herself; after birthing her second child, she had slipped into a sea of unyielding sorrow. Nothing had tasted right, she had been always tired, and the constant screaming of little Stannis didn't help.

But because of the Targaryens and the Starks, Stannis was all she had left.

Cassana had been frantic after Robert's death; sobbing over his body, clinging to her little Renly. Renly was so much like Robert had been at that age, it almost hurt to look at him.

When Steffon came to her after the meeting, and told her what had conspired there, her sadness had morphed into rage.

"A handful of golden dragons, a Tully girl and a bastard babe," She hissed, refusing to let Renly go. "That is what you bought with our son's life? And now we are to lose another into the King's hands?"

"Wrongdoing was done on both sides," Steffon had tried to justify himself. "If we bide our time…"

But Cassana did not wish to bide her time, nor had she. She had kept vigil by Robert's side until Stannis rode for Riverrun and Steffon and Renly rode for King's Landing. While the silent sisters prepared him for their journey, she wrote three letters; one for Maester Cressen, telling him personally of the news, instructions for the funeral that would happen on her return. The other two she wrapped within the letter for Cressen, with instructions for him to pass them on; the first to the Master of Arms at Storm's End, Ser Gawen Wylde, and the other to send on to her father, Lord Alyn Estermont of Greenstone.

Her entire ride had been spent in angry, anxious silence. She had been so silent, the sisters in grey who sat with her may have mistaken her as one of their own…

But now they were arriving home.

She felt the wheels of the carriage shift from the Kingsroad onto the familiar gravely path that signified home. She didn't have to look out the window to anticipate every curve of the carriage as they rode up to the formidable gate of Storm's End, nor did she have to smell the salt in the air to feel the closeness of the sea.

The last time I road over this road, she brooded silently, Robert was at my side, joking that when he was Lord, his first act would be to smooth the cobbles. Renly had been excited to ride his first full sized horse, and Stannis had been thankfully without comment. We were a family, and now…

Now she was climbing from the carriage, being greeted by Maester Cressen, Ser Gawen, and Ser Cortnay Penrose, the castellan.

Each greeted her with a polite bow, and all three went ashen when the Silent Sisters followed her out of the carriage, bearing Robert's bones.

"Mother have Mercy," Ser Cortnay groaned.

Whoever authored the Seven Pointed Star must have been a man, Cassana reflected. Or they would have known mothers are not all mercy. They are also vengeance.

"Were my letters received, Maester?" She asked, letting Ser Gawen take her arm.

"They were, my Lady," Maester Cressen assured her as they walked towards her rooms.

Storm's End felt so empty as they walked through. No one was talking, or laughing; there was only the distant sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks, and of hustling servants in the kitchens.

"Your instructions for gathering for the funeral have been sent out," Cortnay Penrose told her. Cassana tensed as he spoke, hoping Ser Gawen hadn't been foolish enough to confide in him. The Penroses may be Stormlanders, but they were Dragon-blooded, descendents from Elaena Targaryen, and would have had their blood on the throne if Aelinor Penrose had given the first Aerys a child.

"The servants have begun preparations for the visiting Lords," Penrose continued.

"Thank you, Ser Cortnay, Maester Cressen, but I would like to speak with Ser Gawen about a personal matter," she dismissed them, and sped up. When she and Gawen Wylde reached her solar, she shut the door.

"Well?" She implored. "You wrote to your cousin?"

Gawen smiled. "House Wylde is with you, my Lady, as Donnel Swann, the heir to Stonehelm, and Lord Micheal Mertyns of Mistwood-"

"The Dondarrians?"

"Have yet to respond."

Cassana nodded, solemnly. "They will come around, I'm sure… You have told no one else?"

"Would I disobey your orders?" Ser Gawen responded, almost looking coy. Cassana decided he could have been charming, if he wasn't so ugly, with his flat face and oily orange hair.

"Penrose will need to go… I'll send him to the wedding to represent those of us who are… indisposed."

Gawen nodded. "That would be pertinent."

"Has the date been chosen for the wedding yet?"

"On the New Year, it seems."

"That is when the funeral will be, then," she declared. "I would like to be alone, Ser."

She dismissed him, and sat at her desk. There would be more letters, she knew, more secrets to keep from her Maester and parts of her household.

But only until the new year.

She grabbed a pen, and began sketching on a spare piece of paper. She had always enjoyed sketching; somewhere, there was an expensive set of pencils that Robert had sent her one year for her birthday, but she knew she would cry if she dug them out.

The pen moved over the paper, outlining jagged antlers. She drew them dripping with blood, and filled in the space around them with darkness. When she finally done, she sat back, and smiled.

 _After the new year, all will know the Mother's Vengeance,_ she thought. _Ours is the Fury, and when you attack the Stag, you have to deal with the horns._

X X X

Author's Note:

Hello again!

This took a bit longer to get out than anticipated, in part because I was finishing my last semester at school! To celebrate turning in my last project, I finished this up this afternoon. The next chapter is partially written, and the following chapter is complete, but no promises on when either will be up. Hopefully soon!

I experimented a bit with this chapter, I hope it went well. I'm more proud of how some sections were written than others (Asha felt the smoothest to me but idk) so if anyone has any edits/feedback, I'd love to hear them. I Am also excited to see who figures out the short mystery POV in this chapter.


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